


The End of Childhood

by undercovercaptain



Series: Speak Of The North! A Lonely Moor [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Victorian, Brontë (especially Jane Eyre) inspired, Expect meaningful looks and fleeting touches, F/M, Gothic Romance, Governesses and their moody broody employers, and some spooky mysteries to unravel...
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2018-11-30 19:59:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 76,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11470629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/undercovercaptain/pseuds/undercovercaptain
Summary: Sansa Stark is the daughter of Eddard Stark, a minister of modest means, and Catelyn Tully, a woman who left her wealthy family and married purely out of love. A lost investment plunges the family into debt, causing Sansa, her siblings, and their mother to try to keep expenses low and bring in extra money. But Sansa, frustrated that everyone treats her like a child, determines to prove herself and earn money by becoming a governess. With some misgivings, she travels to Storms End to work for the widowed Mr Stannis Baratheon.





	1. A Provincial Life

**Author's Note:**

> General disclaimer that I don't own anything - just playing around with characters from asoiaf/got and the tropes and themes from Victorian and Gothic Lit. Special indebtedness to the Brontës, in particular Charlotte's Jane Eyre and Anne's Agnes Grey. Also, Elizabeth Gaskell's North and South, and Thomas Hardy's Far From The Madding Crowd, both of which contribute to some key scenes and characterisations. I just love Victorian literature, particularly after studying it at university, so I hope you guys will enjoy reading this! Reviews are very much appreciated! x

Young Miss Sansa Stark hailed from the depths of northern England, from the county of Yorkshire. Her father, Eddard Stark, was a clergyman, and a man who was deservedly respected by all who knew him. Her mother, who married him against the wishes of her friends, was a squire’s daughter, and a woman of spirit and beauty. In vain it was represented to Catelyn Tully that, if she became the poor parson’s wife, she must relinquish her carriage and her lady’s maid and all the luxuries and elegances of affluence. A carriage and a lady’s-maid were great conveniences; but, thank Heaven, she had feet to carry her, and hands to minister her own necessities. An elegant house and spacious grounds were not to be despised; but she would rather live in a parsonage with Ned Stark than in a palace with any other man in the world.

            So Miss Tully’s fortune went to swell the purse of her younger, though not necessarily wiser, sister, who had married an austere city gentleman, over twenty years her senior; and Catelyn, to the wonder and compassionate regret of all who knew her, went to bury herself in the quaint village parsonage among the hills of Winterfell in north Yorkshire. And yet, in spite of all this, Sansa Stark truly believed you might search all of England through, and fail to find a happier couple. Sansa thought her mother must have been very happy: for she never seemed to regret past times. Her father, however, whose temper was ruminative rather than cheerful by nature, often unduly vexed himself with thinking of the sacrifices his dear wife had made for him. In vain, Mrs Stark assured him she was quite satisfied; and if he would but lay by a little for the children, they should all have plenty, both for time present and to come: but saving was not Ned Stark’s forte. He would not run in debt, but while he had money he must spend it: he liked to see his house comfortable, and his wife and children well clothed and well attended; and besides, he was charitably disposed and liked to give to the poor according to his means: or, as some might think beyond them.

           The second child and eldest daughter of five children, Sansa Stark and her siblings were brought up in relative seclusion from the rest of the world, confined to their Yorkshire village and their Yorkshire moors. Their mother, being at once highly accomplished, well informed, and fond of employment, took the whole charge of Sansa and her sister Arya’s education on herself, with the exception of Latin – which their father undertook to teach them. So unlike her brothers, for whom there was a boys school in the neighbouring village of Cerwyn, the girls never went to school. Her eldest brother, Robb, was presently studying history and divinity at Cambridge, after having won a scholarship to St. John’s College. For Master Stark’s remaining siblings, however, their only intercourse with the world consisted in a stately tea party, now and then, with the principal farmers and tradespeople of the vicinity, visits to and from the Doctor Reed and his family, and a twice annual visit to their Uncle Benjen, who lived further north, in Blackcastle. Sometimes her mother would amuse Sansa with stories and anecdotes of her younger days, which, while they entertained Sansa amazingly, frequently awoke in her a secret wish to see a little more of the world.

           One farmer who took especial delight in his teas with the Starks was a Mr Jon Snow, a quiet and steady sort of young man, as well as a keen friend of Robb Stark from his Cerwyn school days. His dark hair, height and breadth would have been sufficient to make his presence imposing, had they been exhibited with due consideration. Yet from a quiet modesty, which seemed continually to impress upon him that he had no great claim on the world's room, Snow carried himself unassumingly. And indeed, this demeanour suited the Starks well and as he was a dear friend of Master Robb’s, was admitted to Winterfell Parsonage far more freely than any other neighbour in the area; Jon Snow was free to join the Starks at their table and hearth any day of the week if it so pleased him. 

           So it did not seem so out of the ordinary to spy Farmer Snow walking down the path from the parlour window; only, Miss Arya thought it strange, and remarked upon it to her brothers, that Jon should be wearing a decidedly smart, light waistcoat, and had used hair-oil upon his curls, when he had never took to doing so before. Though what truly peaked the children’s interest was the small pup he held in his arms, the grey diminutive of his great hound, Ghost.

           Just as he arrived by the garden gate, Snow saw the faces of the three youngest Stark children peering at him with interest from the parlour window. Jon hesitated in his steps, pausing to meditate, so deeply in fact that he brought small furrows into his forehead by sheer force of reverie. Jon walked up to the door only to then stand back a little abashed as it was promptly opened, even before he had a chance to rap against the wood.

           “Will you come in, Jon Snow?" inquired an inquisitive Arya, her brothers, Bran and Rickon, on either side of her.

           "Yes, thank you," said Jon, following them to the fireplace. "I've brought a pup for Miss Stark. I thought she might like one to rear, and this little one was going spare."

           “Where’s our pups?” asked Rickon, his cherubic features creasing into an offended frown.

           Jon smiled down at the boy, “Only had the one to spare I’m afraid. Besides,” he said, turning to face Arya, “it’s only right with Robb away that she should get her; she’s the eldest. Do you think she’ll like her?”

           “She might,” replied Arya, narrowing her grey eyes with intrigued suspicion, “if you wait a minute, _Miss Stark_ will be here presently.”

           “Yes, I will wait,” he said sitting down, all the while trying to reign back the blush that was rising in his cheeks, though thankfully it was partially concealed by a healthy beard. At this action the two young lads scampered off to find more diverting entertainment, though Bran lingered a moment longer than his brother to stroke the dosing pup.

           With their departure Jon felt he could speak more plainly; “The pup isn't really the business I came about, Arya.”

           “I didn’t think so.” Her steely eyes continued to watch him with interest until the young man at last elaborated –

           “In short,” he said, letting out a breath, “I was going to ask her if she'd like to be married."

           “Were you now?” Arya almost laughed, but her friendship for Jon, and the look of earnestness on his face halted her.

           "Yes, I was. I am, rather. You see Arya, if she would—if she would in fact like to be married—I should be very glad to marry her. More than glad. Do you know if she’s got any other young man hanging about her at all?”

           "Let me think," said Arya, poking the fire superfluously. "Yes. Bless you, Jon, ever so many young men—at least, I would _imagine_ so,” she at last said. “You see, Jon, she’s ever so beautiful. Not that her young men ever come here— _I’ve_ never seen one. But Lord! in the nature of pretty girls of eighteen, she must have a dozen!”

           “That is unfortunate,” said Farmer Snow, contemplating the sleeping pup in his lap with sorrow. “I’m only an every-day sort of man, and my only chance was in being the first comer…Well, there’s no use in my waiting, for that was all I came about: so I’ll take myself off home then, Arya.”

           Arya tried to implore him to stay, the little pup at her heels as she tugged on Jon’s arm in an attempt to direct him towards the garden pond, where a newly discovered toad resided. But Farmer Snow would not be persuaded. It was only when Jon had gone about two hundred yards on the moorlands that he heard the shout of his name behind him. He looked round, and saw a girl with bright red hair racing after him, waving a white handkerchief.

           Snow stood still, and the runner drew nearer. It was Sansa Stark. Jon’s colour deepened.

           “Farmer Snow, I—” she said, pausing for want of breath pulling up in front of him.

           “I have just called to see you,” said Jon, pending her further speech.

            “Yes, I know that,” she said panting like a robin, her face as pink as a peony. “I didn’t know you had come to see me, or I should have come from the study immediately. Thank you ever so much for the puppy,” and for a moment Jon simply basked in the radiance of her smile before she swiftly schooled her features, “I ran after you to express my gratitude and to say that my sister made a mistake in telling you I have a young man—“

            Jon’s chest expanded. “I’m sorry to have made you run so fast, Sansa,” he said with a grateful sense of favours to come. “Wait a bit till you’ve found your breath.”

            “—It was quite a mistake—Arya's telling you I have a dozen young men hanging about me,” Sansa went on. "I haven't a sweetheart at all—and I never had one, and Arya likes to tease me because of it. And she knows I loathe to be teased!”

            “Really and truly I am glad to hear that!” said Farmer Snow, smiling one of his long special smiles, and blushing with gladness. “Darling Sansa,” he then said, taking her by surprise, and claiming sudden possession of her hand, “I have a nice, snug little farm.”

            “Yes, you have,” Sansa replied, eyeing him cautiously, berating herself for the fluttering of her heart.

            Jon smiled at her with complete adoration, “I am only an every-day sort of man, who has not much to offer, it is true—nothing but prospects in the future—but who does love you, Sansa, almost in spite of himself.” Sansa felt her once rosy cheeks now drain of colour. Jon’s smile dropped and concern marred his features, “Sansa, have I startled you? Surely—surely!— Arya told you?” Jon saw her lips quivering almost as if she were about to cry, though she made a strong effort to be calm; she would not speak until she had succeeded in mastering her voice.

            “I _am_ startled. Arya said nothing of—I did not know that you cared for me in that way. I have always thought of you as a friend; and _please_ , I would rather go on thinking of you so. I don’t like to be spoken to as you have been doing, for I cannot answer you, as you would wish me to! And yet, I should feel so sorry if I vexed you.”

            “Oh Sansa,” he said, looking into her pure blue eyes, which met his with their open, straight look, expressive of the utmost good faith and reluctance to give pain.

            Sansa, gently pulling her hand from between his, shook her head apologetically, “I’m sorry Jon, I shouldn’t have run after you like this, giving you false hope; ‘twas too forward of me! Forgive me, I thought there was no harm in hurrying to correct a false piece of news.”

           “Oh, no—no harm at all.” But there is such a thing as being too generous in expressing a judgment impulsively, and Jon, taking in Sansa’s despondent blue eyes, added with a more appreciative sense of all the circumstances—“Well, I am not quite certain it was no harm.”

            “It never occurred to me that you might want to marry me until just now,” she said, staring at the purple heather beneath their feet.

            “Come,” said Jon, freshening somewhat; “think for a day or two. I’ll wait a while, Miss Stark, I do love you so.” Sansa turned to look thoughtfully into the distance, away from the direction in which Jon stood.

            “I can make you happy,” he said to the back of her red hair. “You shall have a piano, and one of those little ten-pound gigs for market—and nice flowers, and birds—chickens I mean, because they be useful,” continued Jon, feeling balanced between poetry and practicality.

           “Yes; I expect I should like that.”

           “And when the wedding was over, we'd have it put in the newspaper list of marriages, and then the babes in the births. And at home by the fire, whenever you look up, there I shall be—and whenever I look up, there you will be.”

           “Ah! if you had but never got this fancy into your head! It was such a pleasure to think of you as a friend.”

           Jon’s countenance fell, and he was silent awhile. He regarded the purple heather between them over and over again. “But I love you—and, as for myself, I am content with being just liked. I think I could bear that, Miss Stark; I could bear a great many things if you were my wife.”

           Sansa decisively turned to him, “Oh Mr Snow! You are vexed,” she said sadly; “yet how can I help it?” Sansa looked so truly grieved as she said this. “Your words are very fine indeed, but I fear you’d grow to despise me.”

           “Never,” said Snow, so earnestly that he seemed to be coming, by the force of his words, through the heather and into her arms. “I shall do one thing in this life—one thing certain—that is, love you, and long for you, and keep wanting you till I die." His voice had a genuine pathos now, and his hands perceptibly trembled.

           “Jon,” she said woefully, “you are better off than I; I’ve hardly a penny in the world. You are a young farmer just beginning; and you ought in common prudence, to marry a woman with money, who would stock a larger farm for you than you have now.”

           Jon looked at her with a little surprise and much admiration. “If you think you are not good enough for me that is nonsense! You are such a fine lady—all the parish notice it! May I call in the evening, for supper? Or will you walk along with me this Sunday after your father’s sermon? I don’t want you to make-up your mind at once, if you’d rather not.”

           “Please, no more! No more fine words from you Jon Snow! I’ll not have it!” Her face was pink with woeful frustration and in that moment Jon thought her impossibly lovely, despite his aching heart. “You are my friend, a dear friend, Jon Snow; and dearer still to my family. You must forgive me of the pain I’ve inflicted upon you—believe me when I say it was unconsciously done—and forget this foolish fancy! We shall forget all that has passed today—we shan’t ever have to speak of it! And everything can be as it once was; you can continue to visit, as you have always done—I would never wish to keep you from our home Jon!”

           Snow looked at her sweet, sad face, unable to hide the complete dejection from his own, “I fear it a task too great, Miss Stark—” Sansa gave him a pained look in response, but he persevered, “But—but, if you should wish it of me—sweet Sansa—I will try. For you, I will try—If you wish it of me.”

           “Goodbye Jon Snow,” she said sadly, turning to walk back whence she came, back to Winterfell Parsonage. Farmer Snow watched her retreating form for a good while, until there was nothing before him except the wild heather of the moorlands.

            For many days thereafter Sansa thoroughly lamented the hurt she had caused young Jon Snow, yet as she had remarked to him herself, how could she help it? Farmer Snow did not avoid the parsonage as she had feared, though in truth, he did not visit quite so much as he had previously done—back when he had been swept up in the hopefulness of budding love; and when he did indeed visit, Sansa would often catch him watching her with sad, dark eyes.

           At length, however, her spirits rose with the promise of a change in the fortunes of the Stark family; a kind friend had suggested to Mr Stark a means of doubling his private property with one stroke; and further increasing it, hereafter, to an untold amount. This friend, a Mr Jorah Mormont, was a merchant, a man of enterprising spirit and undoubted talent, who was somewhat straitened in his mercantile pursuits for want of capital; but generously proposed to Sansa’s father a fair share of his profits, if he would only entrust him with what he could spare; and Ned Stark thought he might safely promise that. The small patrimony—Mr Stark’s inheritance from his father—was speedily sold, and the whole of its price was deposited in the hands of Mr Mormont; who as promptly proceeded to ship his cargo, and prepare for his voyage.

           Mr Stark was quietly delighted, so were they all, with their brightening prospects. For the present, it was true, they were reduced to the narrow income of the curacy; but Sansa’s father seemed to think there was no necessity for scrupulously restricting their expenditure to that; so with a standing bill at Mr Umber’s, and another at Poole’s, and a third at Cassel’s, they got along even more comfortably than before: though her mother affirmed that they had better keep within bounds, for their prospects of wealth were but precarious, after all; and if Mr Stark would only trust everything to her management, he should never feel himself stinted: but he, for once, was incorrigible.

           What happy hours Sansa and her younger siblings passed, while sitting by the fire, or wandering on the heath-clad hills, or idling under the weeping birch in the garden, talking of future happiness to themselves and their parents, of what they would do, and see, and possess; with no firmer foundation for their goodly fantasies than the riches that were expected to flow in upon from the success of this worthy merchant’s speculations. Their father was nearly as bad as his children: only that he affected not to be so much in earnest: expressing his bright hopes in quiet jests. Mrs Stark laughed with delight to see her husband so hopeful and happy: but she still feared he was setting his heart too much upon the matter; and once Sansa heard her whisper as she left the room, “God grant he be not disappointed! I know not how he would bear it.”

           Disappointed he was; and bitterly, too. It came like a thunder-clap upon them all, that the vessel which contained the Stark’s fortune had been wrecked, and gone to the bottom of the sea with all its stores, together with several of the crew, as well as the unfortunate merchant, Mr Mormont. Sansa was grieved for him; she grieved for the overthrow of all their air-built castles: yet, with the elasticity of youth, she soon recovered the shock and began thinking about what could be done.

 


	2. A Determined Daughter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! Thanks for all the great reviews! I'm so glad people like this idea and are as excited as I am to see where it goes. It's just me editing this so hopefully it's alright! x
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Though riches had charms, poverty had no terrors for an inexperienced girl like Sansa Stark. Indeed, to say the truth, there was something exhilarating and romantic, she thought, about being driven to straits, and thrown upon your own resources. Sansa only wished papa, mamma, Robb—who had taken leave from university to come home—and her younger siblings, were all of the same mind as herself; and then, instead of lamenting past calamities, they might all cheerfully set to work to remedy them; and the greater the difficulties, the harder their present poverties, the greater should be their cheerfulness to endure the latter, and their vigour to contend against the former.

            Master Robb did not lament, but he brooded continually over the misfortune, and sank into a state of dejection from which no effort of Sansa’s could rouse him. She could not possibly bring him to regard the matter on its bright side as she did: and indeed Sansa was so fearful of being charged with childish frivolity, or stupid insensibility, that she carefully kept most of her bright ideas and cheering notions to herself, well knowing they could not be appreciated.

            Sansa’s mother thought only of consoling Mr Stark, and paying their debts and reducing their expenditure by every available means; but Sansa’s father was completely overwhelmed by the calamity: health, strength, and spirits sank beneath the blow. In vain Mrs Stark strove to cheer him, by appealing to his piety, to his courage, to his affection for herself and for their children. That very affection was his greatest torment: it was for their sakes he had so ardently longed to increase his fortune—it was their interest that had lent such brightness to his hopes, and that imparted such bitterness to his present distress. Ned Stark now tormented himself with remorse at having neglected his wife’s advice; which would at least have saved him from the additional burden of debt—he vainly reproached himself for having brought her from the dignity, the ease, the luxury of her former station to toil with him through the drudgeries of poverty. It was rust to his soul to see that splendid, highly accomplished woman, once so courted and admired, transformed into an active managing housewife, with hands and head continually occupied with household labours and household economy. The very willingness with which she performed these duties, the cheerfulness with which she bore her situation, and the kindness which withheld her from imputing the smallest blame to him, were all perverted by this ingenious self-tormentor into further aggravations of his sufferings. Not one of them could convince him that the aspect of the their affairs was not half so gloomy, so utterly hopeless, as his morbid imaginations represented it to be.

            The useful pony phaeton was sold, together with the stout well-fed pony, Nan—the old favourite that they had fully determined should end her days in peace, and never pass from their hands; the little coach-house and stable were let; the servant boy, Hodor, and Rosa, the more efficient (being more expensive) of the two maid-servants were dismissed. Their clothes were mended, turned, and darned by Sansa and her mother to the utmost verge of decency; their food was now simplified to an unprecedented degree—except Mr Stark’s favourite dishes; and their coals and candles were painfully economised. As for their carpets, they in time were worn threadbare, and patched and darned even to a greater extent than their garments. To save the expense of a gardener, Arya and her brothers undertook to keep the garden in order; and all the cooking and household work that could not easily be managed by one servant girl was done by Mrs Stark, with a little occasional help from Sansa: only a little, because though a woman in her own estimation, Sansa was still a child in her mother’s; and Mrs Stark, being so clever and diligent herself, was never tempted to trust her affairs to a deputy, but on the contrary, was willing to act and think for others as well as herself; and whatever was the business in hand, Catelyn Stark was apt to think that no one could do it so well as herself: so that whenever Sansa offered to assist her, she received such an answer as—“No, sweetling, you cannot indeed—there’s nothing here you can do. Go and help your brothers and sister, or get papa to take a walk with you—tell him he must not sit so much, and stay so constantly in the house as he does.”

            “Oh mamma! Let me help you! Or perhaps _you_ and I could take a turn about the moors together?”

            “Help me you cannot, Sansa; and _I_ cannot go out with you—I have far too much to do.”

            “Then let me help you!”

            “You cannot, dear child. Go and practise your music or play with the puppy.”

            Through all their troubles, Sansa never but once heard her mother complain of their want of money. One morning in the parlour, surrounded by her five children, Catelyn Stark observed, “What a desirable thing it would be for your papa to spend a few weeks at White Harbour when the weather picks up. I am convinced the sea-air and the change of scene would be of immeasurable benefit to him. But then, you see, there’s no money,” she added with a sigh. All the Stark children wished exceedingly that the thing might be done, and lamented greatly that it could not. “Well, well!” she said, “it’s no use complaining. Possibly something might be done to further the project after all. Robb, you are a talented drawer and painter. What do you say to doing a few more pictures in your best style, and getting them framed, with the oil painted ones you have already done, and trying to dispose of them to some liberal picture-dealer, who has the sense to discern their merits?”

            “Mamma, I should be pleased as punch if you should think they _could_ be sold; and for anything worth while.”

            “It’s worth while trying dearest.”

            “Of course! I shall procure the paintings and also endeavour to find a purchaser,” Robb clapped his hands together in enthusiasm at the scheme.

            “I wish _I_ could do something,” said Sansa.

            “You, Sansa!” cried Arya from the settee.

            “Well, who knows?” said their mother, “You draw beautifully as well, I dare say you will be able to produce a watercolour that we shall all be proud to exhibit.”

            “But I have another scheme in my head, mamma, and have had it for a while, only I did not like to mention it.”

            “Indeed! pray tell us what it is,” replied Robb.

            “I should like to be a governess.”

            Sansa’s mother uttered an exclamation of surprise, and Robb laughed. Bran dropped his book in astonishment, startling Rickon, and Arya exclaimed, “ _You_ a governess, Sansa! What _can_ you be dreaming of!”

            “Well! I don’t see anything so _very_ extraordinary in it,” snapped Sansa, before calming herself, “I do not pretend to be able to instruct great girls; but surely I could teach little ones: and I should like it _so_ much: I am so fond of children. Do let me, mamma!”

            “But, my love, you have not learned to take care of _yourself_ yet: and young children require more judgement and experience than older ones.”

            “But, mamma, I am eighteen, and quite able to take care of myself, and others too. You do not—nor do any of you,” she said, looking her siblings, “know half the wisdom and prudence I possess, because I have never been tried.”

            “Only think,” said Bran, “what would you do in a house full of strangers?”

            “Yes,” nodded Robb sagely, “and without me or mamma to speak and act for you—with a parcel of children, besides yourself, to attend to; and no one to look to for advice?”

            “You would not even know what clothes to put on,” smirked Arya.

            “You all think,” glared Sansa, “just because I always do as you bid me, that I have no judgement of my own: but only try me—that is all I ask—and you shall see what I can do.”

            At that moment Sansa’s father entered, and the subject of discussion was explained to him.

            “What, my little Sansa a governess!” he cried, and, in spite of his dejection, he laughed at the idea.

            “Yes, papa, and don’t _you_ say anything against it: I should like it _so_ much; and I am sure,” she declared with confidence, looking at Arya, “that I could manage delightfully.”

            “But, my darling, we could not spare you.” And a tear glistened in his eye as he added—“No, no! Afflicted as we are, surely we have not come to this.”

            “Oh, no!” said Mrs Stark. “There is no necessity whatever for such a step; it is merely a whim of her own. So you must hold your tongue, you naughty girl; for, though you are so ready to leave _us_ , you know very well we cannot part with _you_.” Sansa slumped in her chair as Arya looked on triumphantly, while Rickon placed her puppy, Lady, in her lap as a means to cheer her.

            She was silenced for that day, and for many succeeding ones; but still Sansa did not wholly relinquish her darling scheme. Robb got his drawing materials, and steadily set to work. Sansa got hers too; but while she drew, she thought of other things. How delightful it would be to be a governess! To go out into the world; to enter upon a new life; to act for herself; to exercise her unused faculties; to try her unknown powers; to earn her own maintenance, and something to comfort and help her father, mother, and siblings, besides exonerating them from the provision of her food and clothing; to show papa what his little Sansa could do; to convince mamma, Robb and Arya that she was not quite the helpless, thoughtless being they supposed. And then, how charming to be entrusted with the care and education of children! Whatever others said, Sansa felt she was fully up to the task: the clear remembrance of her own thoughts in early childhood would be a surer guide than the instruction of the most mature adviser. Sansa had but to turn from her little pupils to herself at their age, and she should know, at once, how to win their confidence and affections: how to embolden the timid, and console the afflicted; how to make Virtue practicable, Instruction desirable, and Religion lovely and comprehensible. Oh to train the tender plants, and watch their buds unfolding day by day, Sansa mused!

            Influenced by so many inducements, Sansa determined still to persevere; though the fear of displeasing her mother, or distressing her father, prevented her from resuming the subject for several days.

            “Sansa wishes to leave us,” said Rickon tearfully one day to a visiting Farmer Snow.

            “Oh?” he replied, frowning down at her with doleful dark eyes, “And why is that Miss Stark?”

            “She wants to be a governess,” interjected Bran, who was, along with Robb, trying to coax the puppy Jon had given Sansa out from under the settee.

            “I can speak for myself, thank you Brandon,” murmured Sansa sullenly, though she did not elaborate upon her brother’s words, and merely continued to trace raindrops on the windowpane with a finger.

            “Well,” sighed Jon Snow, “why is that so Miss Sansa? Don’t you like Winterfell village anymore? Are we—have we become so very tiresome?”

            “She fancies herself the instructor of some Lord and Lady’s little babies. But I don’t think Sansa knows anything about it!” exclaimed Arya, all the while trying to distract Jon from her sullen sister by thrusting a toad from the pond in his face.

            At length, again, Sansa mentioned the matter to her mother in private; and, with some difficulty, got her to promise to assist Sansa with her endeavours. Her father’s reluctant consent was next obtained, and then, though her siblings still sighed their disapproval, Sansa’s dear, kind mother began to look out for a situation for her eldest daughter. Catelyn wrote to Mr Stark’s relations, and consulted the newspaper advertisements—her own Tully relations she did not apply to. But so long and so entire was Sansa’s parents’ seclusion from the world, that many weeks elapsed, it was only once Robb had returned to Cambridge that a suitable situation was at last prepared. Finally, to Sansa’s great joy, it was decreed that she should take charge of the young daughter of a certain Mr Baratheon; whom kind Doctor Reed had known from years past, and had asserted him to be a very well-off and respectable gentleman. Although the precise personality of Mr Baratheon was not remarked upon, nor that of his wife; and yet, Sansa was glad to accept the post, and gladder still to except its generous wage.

            But some weeks more were yet to be devoted to preparation. How long, how tedious those weeks appeared to Sansa! Yet they were happy ones in the main—full of bright hopes and ardent expectations. With pleasure Sansa assisted in the making of her new clothes, and, subsequently, the packing of her trunks! But there was a feeling of sadness mingling with the latter occupation too; and when it was done—when all was ready for Sansa’s departure on the morrow, and the last night at home approached—a sudden anguish seemed to swell in her heart. Her dear village friends, Beth Cassel and Jeyne Poole, looked so sad, and spoke so very kindly, that Sansa could scarcely keep her eyes from overflowing: but Sansa still affected to be cheerful. She had taken her last ramble with Arya and the boys on the moors, her last walk in the garden, and round the parsonage; she had fed, with her siblings, their pet pigeons for the last time—the pretty creatures that they had tamed to peck food from their hands: Sansa had given a farewell stroke to all their silky backs as they crowded in her lap. She had tenderly kissed her own peculiar favourites, the pair of snow-white fantails; she had played her last tune on the old familiar piano, and sung her last song to papa: not the last, Sansa hoped, but the last for, what appeared to her, a very long time. And, perhaps, when Sansa did these things again, it would be with different feelings: circumstances might be changed and this house, Winterfell Parsonage, might never be her settled home again.

            Her dear little friend, Lady, the puppy from Farmer Jon, would certainly be changed: she was already growing into a fine hound; and when Sansa returned, even for a hasty visit at Christmas, would, most likely, have forgotten both her playmate and her merry pranks. Sansa had romped with her for the last time; and when she stroked her soft grey coat, while she lay dosing in Sansa’s lap, it was with a feeling of sadness Sansa could not easily disguise. Then, at bed-time, when she retired with Arya in their quiet little chamber, where already her drawers were cleared out and Sansa’s share of the bookcase was empty—and where, hereafter, Arya would have to sleep alone, in dreary solitude, as she expressed it—Sansa’s heart sank more than ever: she felt as if she had been selfish and wrong to persist in leaving her; and when she knelt once more beside their bed, Sansa prayed for a blessing on Arya, on her brothers, and on her parents more fervently than she had ever done before. To conceal her emotion, Sansa buried her face in her hands, and they were presently bathed in tears. She perceived, on rising, that Arya had been crying too: but neither of them spoke; and in silence the sisters betook themselves to their repose, creeping more closely together from the consciousness that they were to part so soon.

            But the morning brought a renewal of hope and spirits. Sansa was to depart early so that the gig, hired from Mr Poole, the draper, grocer, and tea-dealer of the village, might return the same day. Sansa rose, washed, dressed, swallowed a hasty breakfast, received the fond embraces of her father, mother, sister, and brothers, kissed the puppy, to the great scandal of Louise, the maid—shook hands with her, mounted the gig, drew her veil over her face, and then, but not till then, burst into a flood of tears. The gig rolled on; Sansa looked back; her dear parents and siblings were still standing at the door, looking after her, and waving their adieux. Sansa returned their salute, and prayed to God to bless them all. Then, as they descended the hill, Sansa could see them no more.

            “It’s a coldish mornin’ for you, Miss Stark,” observed Poole; “and a darksome one too; but we’ll get you where you needs to be before there comes much rain.”

            “Yes, I hope so,” replied Sansa, as calmly as she could.

            “It rained a good deal last night too.”

            “Yes.”

            “But this cold wind will keep it off.”

            “Perhaps it will.”

            Here ended their conversation. They crossed the valley, and began to ascend the opposite hill. As they were toiling up, Sansa looked back again: there was the village spire, and the old grey parsonage behind it, basking in a slanting beam of sunshine—it was but a faint ray, but the village and surrounding hills were all in sombre shade. With clasped hands, Sansa fervently implored a blessing on its inhabitants, and hastily turned away; for she saw the sunshine was departing; and Sansa carefully avoided another glance, lest she should see it in gloomy shadow, like the rest of the north Yorkshire landscape. As they drove along, Sansa’s spirits revived again, and she turned, with pleasure, to the contemplation of the new life upon which she was entering.

            Though the heavy clouds and strong north-easterly wind combined to render the day extremely cold and dreary; and the journey seemed a very long one, for Poole’s horse crawled up the hills, and crept down them, and only managed a trot when the road was completely level or at a very gentle slope, which was rarely the case in these rugged regions; so it was nearly one o’clock before they reached their destination. Soon after, Poole got down and opened a pair of gates; and they slowly ascended a drive, and came upon the long front of a house. Everything appeared very stately and imposing to Sansa: but then she was so little accustomed to grandeur. Storms End was three stories high, of proportions not vast, though considerable: a gentleman’s manor house, not a nobleman’s seat: battlements around the top gave it a picturesque look. Farther off were hills: not so lofty as those around Winterfell, nor so craggy, not so like barriers of separation from the rest of the world; but yet quiet and lonely hills all the same. A little hamlet straggled up the side of one of these hills, with the church of the district standing nearer to Storms End.

            In that moment some of Sansa’s courage seemed to leave her, and she wished Storms End were a mile or two farther off. For the first time in her life, she must stand-alone: there was no retreating now. I must enter that strange house, and introduce myself among its strange inhabitants, she thought to herself. But how was it to be done? True, she was eighteen; but, thanks to the protecting care of her mamma and papa, Sansa knew well that many a girl of eighteen and younger was gifted with a more womanly address than she. Yet, if the undefined Mrs Baratheon were a kind, motherly woman, Sansa was sure she would do very well at Storms End; and the little girl, of course, Sansa should soon be at ease with—and Mr Baratheon, she hoped, she should have very little to do with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So now Sansa is at Storms End maybe she'll bump into the master of the house? Hope everyone is looking forward to Stannis's entrance in the next chapter! x


	3. A Series of Introductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again for the lovely reviews! This chapter is a bit longer than the other two and was also heavily inspired, in parts, from my re-reading of Jane Eyre. 
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

“Be calm, be calm, whatever happens,” Sansa whispered to herself as Poole’s gig stopped at the front door of Storms End, which was soon opened by a maid-servant; Sansa alighted and proceeded in.

            “Will you walk this way, miss,” she said; and Sansa followed her across a square hall with high doors all round: she ushered her into a snug, small room; inside there was a round table by a cheerful fire; and an armchair, high-backed and old-fashioned, wherein sat the neatest little elderly lady, in a widow’s cap, black silk gown and snowy muslin apron. She was occupied in knitting; a large black cat with a white chest and paws sat demurely at her feet; nothing, in short, was wanting from this picture of domestic comfort. A more reassuring introduction for a new governess could scarcely be conceived: there was no grandeur to overwhelm, no stateliness to embarrass; and then, as Sansa entered, the old lady got up, and promptly and kindly came forward to meet her.

            “How do you do, my dear? I am afraid you have had a tedious ride; the roads are so rough around these parts. Come, you must be cold, sit down by the fire.”

            “I am well, thank you,” replied Sansa. “And the journey was not so bad,” she quickly added. The old lady conducted her to her own chair, and then began to remove Sansa’s shawl and veil, and untie her bonnet-strings: Sansa begged that she should not trouble herself.

            “Oh, it’s no trouble; I dare say your own hands are almost numbed with cold. Justine, make a little hot port and lemon, and cut a sandwich or two; I suspect Miss Stark would like a little luncheon: here are the keys to the store-room.” And she produced from her pocket a bunch of keys, and handed them to the housemaid.

            “Now, then, draw nearer to the fire and warm yourself;” she continued. “You’ve brought your luggage with you, haven’t you, my dear?”

            “Yes, ma’am.”

            “I’ll see it carried up to your room,” she said, and bustled out for a moment before quickly reappearing. At her return she cleared her knitting apparatus and a book or two from the table, to make room for the tray which Justine now brought, and then handed Sansa the refreshments. She then sat down opposite Sansa, taking the cat on her knee.          

            “When shall I see your daughter, ma’am?” Sansa asked, when she had partaken what the old lady had offered her.

            “My daughter? I have no daughter, my dear,” replied the good lady, looking puzzled.

            “Miss Baratheon is not your daughter?” asked Sansa, uneasiness rising in her. “Are you not Mrs Baratheon?”

            “Oh, bless you, child!” laughed the lady. “What an idea! I am only the housekeeper—Mrs Cressen.”

            Sansa felt her face flush with colour. “Forgive me, ma’am. I thought Storms End belonged to you.”

            “Oh no, my dear! Storms End belongs to Mr Baratheon, and only he—since the mistress died these four years past.”

            “Oh,” was all Sansa could think to say in response.

            “No harm done, my dear,” said Mrs Cressen, and she smiled at Sansa kindly. “How do you like Storms End?” she said soon after, and Sansa told her that she liked it very much. “Yes,” replied Mrs Cressen, “it is a grand old place; but I fear it will be getting out of order, unless Mr Baratheon should take it into his head to finally return from town; great houses and fine grounds require the presence of the proprietor: he’s been down in London for almost a month on some business or another, you see.”

            Sansa could not help feeling somewhat apprehensive with the revelation that there would be no motherly, reassuring presence in the form of _Mrs_ Baratheon to guide her; but at least Mr Baratheon was not yet home; she felt ill prepared to face such an assumedly stately gentleman at that present moment.

            “I am so glad—” continued Mrs Cressen, “I am so glad you are come; it will be quite pleasant living here now with a companion. To be sure it is pleasant at any time; for Storms End is a fine old hall; yet you know in wintertime, one can feel quite alone. I say alone—Justine is a nice girl to be sure, and Davos and his wife are very decent people; but then you see they are only servants—though Mr Seaworth is the land agent—but one can’t converse with them on terms of equality: one must keep a due distance, for fear of losing one’s authority. I’m sure last winter—it was a very severe one, if you recollect—not a creature but the butcher and postman came to the house, from November to February; and I really got quite melancholy with sitting night after night alone. In spring and summer one got on better: sunshine and long days make such a difference; and then just at the commencement of this autumn, little Shireen Baratheon came with her nurse from her relations, the Estermonts: a child makes a house alive all at once; and now you are here I shall be quite merry.”

            The news that Miss Baratheon, much like Sansa herself, was newly arrived at Storms End surprised her somewhat. “May I ask why Miss Baratheon has not always been at Storms End, ma’am?” she inquired tentatively; all at once afraid to cause offense in some way, yet consumed by her own curiosity.

            “Oh, well,” replied Mrs Cressen, her previous exuberance beginning to dim, “It was because of the mistress—the late Mrs Baratheon. I don’t know all the particulars of it, my dear. But, perhaps it is best I tell you what I know of it.” Sansa tried to school her features into a smooth mask, so that they did not hint at the whirring mind beneath the surface. “The late Mrs Baratheon, she—I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, my dear, but it must be said—she—she was—a very troubled woman, shall we say. Though it wasn’t so bad at the start—the beginning of their marriage, I mean. But then certain—behaviours—manifested themselves; she started making foolish, superstitious claims about the house; and later she became fanatically pious; until finally she starting becoming violent during her outbursts and the master thought it best to send little Shireen away to his Uncle Estermont’s; the master feared for her safety to be honest with you, Miss Stark.” Mrs Cressen sighed deeply, releasing with it some of the gloom that had fallen upon them. “Then the mistress died, and in due coarse the little miss returned to us; though not immediately, because she had a nasty bout of scarlet fever not long ago.”

            “I am sorry to hear that,” said Sansa, “that Miss Baratheon was ill—and that Mrs—that Mrs Baratheon is—” Sansa did not know quite what to say, or indeed _think_ ; what sort of house had she tied herself to? Yet her youthful curiosity bid her to ask in a hushed tone, “How did—how did she die?”         

            “A sorry business,” murmured Mrs Cressen in reply, “a very sorry business indeed. I don’t feel it my place to speak of it, my dear.” Sansa tried not to look disappointed at this withholding of information, but again, was unsure what to say in response; although that was soon remedied when Mrs Cressen continued—“And it’s a terribly morbid conservation, especially for a girl as young as yourself—pray tell, how old are you, child?” her lined face lightening considerably with the change in topic.

            “I am eighteen, ma’am,” replied Sansa, silently storing all she had learnt away in her mind, to ponder upon at the earliest convenience.

            “So young!” cried Mrs Cressen cheerily. “And so pretty too! Yes, very pretty indeed: such fine features, and my! such wondrous hair! Dear girl, I fear the drab state of a governess will not suit you; surely there was some young man you could have married?”

            Sansa blushed and then looked downcast at the mention of a “young man,” thinking guiltily of Jon Snow and the hurt she had caused him with her refusal. “Thank you, Mrs Cressen; and no, ma’am, there was not.”

            “Well, you’re here in any case,” Mrs Cressen said kindly, “and I must say, I am very glad of it.”

            “I am glad to be here,” smiled Sansa, regaining her cheer. “When am I to meet Miss Baratheon—my pupil?”

            “Oh, I suspect she’ll be in the garden this time of day—with her nurse, Miss Patchett. Best we go and fetch her; I fear there’s an awful chill in the air and Miss Shireen is such a fragile little thing.”

            As they rose from their chairs, Sansa took a moment to smooth down her dove grey skirts; she had dressed herself with great care as it was not her habit to be disregardful of appearance or careless of the impression she made: on the contrary, she always wished to look as well as she could; and this was not at all hampered by rosy cheeks, a straight nose, and a small cherry mouth.

            When they had reached the hall Sansa halted there a minute to view a pair of paintings on the wall; one depicted a grim man astride a horse, and the other a lady with powdered hair and a black stoned, gold necklace. Yet, she did not linger for long as Mrs Cressen stood waiting for her by the hall-door; Sansa swiftly followed her over the threshold and into the garden. She then took in the calm prospect and pleasant fresh air, listening with delight at the cawing of the rooks.

            “Mr Baratheon always intended for Miss Shireen to be brought up here in Yorkshire,” remarked the housekeeper, admiring their surroundings proudly. “But her health prevented it, until recently. Oh, here she comes, Miss Stark—with her “Patches,” as she calls her nurse.”

            Sansa clasped her hands in front of her with nervous anticipation: a little girl, followed by her attendant, was running up the lawn to meet them. Sansa looked at her pupil, who was staring innocently back at her: she was quite a child, perhaps seven or eight years old, slightly built, with a pale face, a square jaw, and black hair which fell to her waist. Shireen Baratheon was not quite a pretty child, not as Sansa herself had been, but she had a look about her which conveyed a sweet disposition and an innate goodness.

            “Good afternoon, Miss Shireen,” said Mrs Cressen. “Come and speak to the lady who is to teach you.” Shireen approached somewhat shyly, despite having only moments earlier been running down the lawn with excitement. She came and shook hands with Sansa; and as she led Shireen back into the house, Sansa asked her what she thought of Yorkshire and if she was looking forward to her new studies: Shireen replied briefly at first, but after they were seated in the drawing room, and she had examined Sansa some ten minutes with her large dark blue eyes, she suddenly began chatting away more enthusiastically.

            “Papa asked me if I would like to go and live with him in Yorkshire, and I said yes; for _he_ was my papa, not Uncle Estermont: but you see he has not kept his word, for he has brought me to Yorkshire, and now he has gone to London, and I never see him,” she said sadly.

Sansa thought it strange that Mr Baratheon would go to the trouble of removing his child from Storms End—for her own safety—only to bring her back and then never see her. A peculiar man indeed, for Sansa had decided within mere seconds of meeting Shireen Baratheon, that she liked her immeasurably and should enjoy nothing more than helping to expand her young mind.

            After their introductions had been made, Shireen and Sansa withdrew to the library; which Mr Baratheon had directed should be used as a schoolroom. Most of the books were locked up behind glass doors; but there was one bookcase left open containing everything that could be needed in the way of elementary works, and several volumes of literature, poetry, biography, travels, and a few romances. Sansa supposed Mr Baratheon had considered that these were all a governess would require for her private perusal; and indeed, they contented her amply for the present. In this room, too, there was a small piano, quite new and of superior sound, as well as an easel for painting, and a pair of globes. Sansa found her pupil sufficiently docile and well inclined to apply herself. Yet, as Sansa had arrived at Storms End past midday she felt it would be ill advised to keep her in the schoolroom too long; so, when Sansa had talked to her some more, and got her to learn just a little, she allowed Shireen to return to her nurse for an early supper. Sansa then decided to occupy herself till dinnertime in drawing some little sketches for Shireen’s use.

            “Do you like him?” Sansa asked Mrs Cressen, when they were sitting together, eating dinner in the housekeeper’s room; Sansa recognised it as the snug little room they had been in earlier that day. “Is he generally liked?”

            “Who, my dear?”

            “Mr Baratheon.”

            “Oh, yes; the family have always been respected here. Almost all the land in this neighbourhood, as far as you can see, has belonged to the Baratheons at one point or another.”

            “I see. But, leaving his land out of the question, do you like him? Is he liked for himself?”

            “ _I_ have no cause to do other than like him; and I believe he is considered a just and capable landlord by his tenants.”

            “But what is he like?” persisted Sansa. “What is his character?”

            “Oh, his character is unimpeachable. Though, one might consider him somewhat peculiar.”

            “In what way is he peculiar?”

            “I don’t know—it is not easy to describe—nothing striking, but you feel it when he speaks to you: you cannot be always sure what he is thinking, whether he is pleased or the contrary; you don’t thoroughly understand him, in short—at least, I don’t: but it is of no consequence, he is a very good master.” This was all Sansa could glean from Mrs Cressen concerning her and Sansa’s employer; Mr Baratheon was simply Mr Baratheon in her eyes.

            “I shouldn’t keep you sitting up too late tonight, my dear,” Mrs Cressen then said; “you travelled a great deal today: you must feel tired. Tomorrow I shall show you around the rest of the house, but for now I’ll show you your bedroom. I’ve had the room next to mine prepared for you; it is only a small apartment, but I thought you would like it better than one of the large front chambers: to be sure they have finer furniture, but they are so dreary and solitary.”

            Sansa thanked her for her considerate choice, and as she really did feel quite fatigued, expressed her readiness to retire. Mrs Cressen took her candle, and Sansa followed her from the room. First she went to see if the hall-door was fastened; having taken the key from the lock, she led the way upstairs. The steps and banisters were of oak; the staircase window was high and latticed. A very chill air pervaded the stairs and gallery; Sansa was glad to be finally ushered into her own chamber, finding it to be of small dimensions and furnished simply yet comfortably. When Mrs Cressen had bid her a goodnight, and Sansa had fastened her door, gazed leisurely round, and in some measure effaced the eerie impression made by that wide hall, that dark and spacious staircase, and that long, cold gallery, by the livelier aspect of her little room, she remembered that after a journey full of mental anxiety, she was now at last in safe haven. The impulse of gratitude swelled in Sansa’s heart, and she knelt down at the bed-side, and offered up thanks where thanks were due; not forgetting to ask for blessings and good tidings for mamma and papa, Arya, and the boys.

            Several weeks passed away at Storms End, proving Mrs Cressen to be exactly what she appeared: a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman; no Mrs Baratheon, but a motherly, guiding presence all the same. Sansa’s pupil, at first pale and withdrawn, grew more and more lively with each day that passed; both Shireen’s mind and manner flourished under Sansa’s kind and attentive care.

            One afternoon, Sansa decided to allow her little charge a holiday, as she had a cold. It was a fine, calm day, though there was a chill in the air which could not be ignored; but Sansa was tired of sitting still in the library: she had finished writing her weekly letter to her family, so had put on her bonnet and cloak and ventured out to deliver it to the post-office in Felwood, along with a letter of Mrs Cressen’s. The two-mile distance would be a pleasant winter afternoon walk, Sansa affirmed. Having seen Shireen comfortably seated in her little chair by Mrs Cressen’s fireside, and given her her carved wooden stag to play with, and a story-book, so she might have a choice of amusements; and having replied to her “Come back soon, my dear Miss Stark,” with a kiss, Sansa set out.

            The ground was hard, the air was still; Sansa walked fast till she got warm, and then slowed down again to better enjoy and analyse her surroundings. The church bell tolled as she passed by; it was four o’clock. She was a mile from Storms End, in a lane noted for wild roses in summer and blackberries in autumn, but whose winter delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an evergreen to rustle, and the hawthorn and hazel bushes were as still as the pale, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path. Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now grazed; and the little brown birds which stirred occasionally in the hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.

            This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Felwood: having reached the middle, Sansa sat down on a stile, which led onward into a field, to rest her feet a moment. All was quiet until a noise broke through; all at once so far away and yet so clear: a tramp, tramp, and a metallic clatter. The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane yet hid it, but it approached. Sansa was just leaving the stile; yet, as the path was narrow, she sat still to let it go by. As Sansa was young and had an imaginative disposition, all sorts of fancies bright and dark began to take root in her mind. As this horse approached, and as Sansa watched for it to appear around the bend, she remembered a tale of her mother’s which featured a North-of-England spirit, called a “Gytrash”; which, in the form of a horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and sometimes came upon lingering travellers, as this horse was now coming upon her.

            It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp, tramp, Sansa heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems glided a great grey dog; a deerhound to be precise. Her heart sped up a little at the sight of it, thinking back to her mother’s story. It passed her by, however. The horse followed—a tall steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone. The rider passed, and Sansa went on; a few steps, and she turned: a sliding sound and an exclamation of “Damn you! Cursed beast!” and a clattering tumble arrested Sansa’s attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked till the surrounding hills echoed with the sound. He then ran up to Sansa; it was all he could do—there was no other help to summon. She obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, who was by this time struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, Sansa thought he could not be much hurt. Nevertheless, she called out to him—

            “Are you injured, sir?”

            Sansa thought he was swearing, but could not be certain; however, he was muttering something, which prevented him from replying to her immediately.

            “Can I do anything for you, sir? Can I be of any assistance?” Sansa continued, clasping her hands anxiously; wanting so very much to be helpful in some way.

            “Keep back,” he answered as he rose, first to his knees, and then to his feet. She did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping, clattering process, accompanied by barking. Time seemed to stretch as Sansa watched the scene before her, and then all at once the horse was put to rights again, and the dog was silenced with a “Down, Actaeon!” The traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he limped to the stile whence she had just risen, and sat down.

            Still eager to prove herself useful, Sansa cautiously drew nearer him again. “If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch someone, either from Storms End or from Felwood.”

            “There is no need: I have no broken bones—only a sprain;” and again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an involuntary “Ugh!”

            Sansa could now see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a dark riding cloak, which did nothing to assuage his considerable breadth of chest and profound height. He had dark hair, and a stern face; his eyes and gathered brows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth, but had not reached middle age; perhaps he might be thirty-four or thirty-five, she thought. Sansa felt no fear of him, but a little shyness, and she did not move when he waved to her to go.

            “I cannot think of leaving you, sir, until I see you fit to mount your horse,” she said firmly.

            He looked at her when she said this: he had hardly turned his eyes in Sansa’s direction before; and he continued to look at her, silence encompassing them until he finally spoke again.

            “Where have you come from?” he said, with dark blue eyes narrowed.

            Sansa turned and pointed in the direction of Storms End. “Truly, sir, I can run over to Felwood for you, if you wish it—I am going there to post some letters.”

            He tore his gaze from her and shook his head, brows furrowed. He then rose from the stile: his face becoming pained when he tried to move. “I cannot commission you to fetch help,” he said; “but you yourself can be of some assistance to me.”

            “Of course, sir,” responded Sansa, fervently.

            “You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?”

            “No, sir.” The man exhaled through his nose in frustration.

            “Get hold of my horse’s bridle and lead him to me.”

            Sansa should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to do it, she was disposed to obey. She went up to the tall steed and endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a spirited thing, and would not let her come near its head; Sansa made effort upon effort, though in vain: meanwhile, she was terrified of its trampling fore feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last let out an irritated sigh.

            “Come here.”

            Sansa moved towards him—“Necessity compels me to make you useful,” he muttered. He then laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, and leaning on her with some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he mastered it directly, and sprang to his saddle; grimaced grimly as he made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.

            “Hand me my whip,” he said, releasing his bottom lip from a hard bite.

            Sansa spun around, scouring the area with fervent blue eyes.

            “It lies there under the hedge,” murmured the man, impatiently.

            Sansa soon found it and handed it up to him.

            “Thank you,” he said, then paused and added, “make haste with your letters; these woods aren’t safe for idling young ladies.” A touch of spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then bound away; the dog rushed in his traces: all three vanished.

            Sansa frowned at where his horse and he had once stood. Yet, despite the man’s stern, and arguably rude, demeanour, Sansa was pleased to have helped him; trivial, and transitory though the deed was. But what a peculiar man! His face was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was so masculine, in a way different to the few male acquaintances she had in Winterfell, and the face of her father; and secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. Sansa had it still before her when she entered Felwood, and slipped the letters into the post-office; and she saw it as she walked fast down hill all the way home.

            Once back at Storms End, she hastened to Mrs Cressen’s room: the fire was lit, but no candle, and no Mrs Cressen. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, Sansa beheld a large deerhound, just like the one she saw earlier on the lane. It was so like it that she went forward and said—

            “Actaeon,” and the thing got up and came to her and snuffed her. Sansa caressed him, remembering her Lady, as he wagged his great tail: but he looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and she could not tell whence he had come. She rang the bell, for Sansa wanted a candle; and she wanted, too, to get an account of this visitant. Justine entered.

            “Where did this dog come from?”

            “He came with the master.”

            “The master?” Sansa repeated, her heart beginning to beat faster.

            “Yes, Miss Stark—he is just arrived.”

            “Oh! Is Mrs Cressen with him?”

            “Yes, and Miss Shireen as well; they are in the drawing room, and Pylos is gone for a doctor: for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is sprained.”

            Sansa felt her face flush in realisation. “Did the horse fall in Durran’s Lane?”

            “Yes, coming down the hill; it slipped on some ice.”

            “Oh dear!” said Sansa, sweeping a hand against her brow, the other resting on her hip. “Could you please bring me a candle, Justine?”

            Justine brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs Cressen, who repeated the news; adding that the doctor had come and was now with Mr Baratheon; and when he had left, the master wanted to see her; she then hurried out to give orders about tea, and Sansa went swiftly upstairs to take off her things.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So yeah, I basically took the first meeting of Jane and Rochester and reworked it for Stannis and Sansa! I just had to give Stannis his Rochester moment, so I hope you guys liked it - and that it was worth the wait! 
> 
> Here's just a nerdy side note, in case any of you are interested:
> 
> Actaeon (Stannis' dog) is named after this hunter guy in Greek mythology who pissed off the goddess Artemis, so was "transformed into a stag, and his raging hounds, struck with a 'wolf's frenzy,' tore him apart as they would a stag." I just thought that would be a morbidly ironic name for Stannis' deerhound, I feel like he'd find that name amusing. Plus the deer/stag references.
> 
> Also I've added some moodboards I made (after struggling to work out how to upload them for AGES), sorry that the quality has come out a little fuzzy...The first is just a general one I made at the beginning of this story, and the second is basically how I imagine Sansa's governess wardrobe looking.
> 
> Anyway thanks for reading - reviews very much appreciated! x


	4. Firesides and Snowdrops

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone who has left a review! I know I've said it probably quite a few times in the comments, but I'm so happy you guys are as into this Victorian AU as I am! Hope everyone is ready for more hard to understand, broody, moody Stannis ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

A true apprehension had taken hold of Sansa by the time she had reached her room; her small, pale hands shook a little as she put away her shawl and bonnet. Indeed, she very nearly started in surprise when Mrs Cressen suddenly bustled into her room without knocking; her lined face was flushed with exertion, indicating to Sansa that she had made the journey to her chamber with a sense of great urgency.

            “Forgive the intrusion, my dear: I had forgotten to tell you that you had better change your frock before seeing the master. Now, lets make haste, child—the doctor will be on his way out soon. We mustn’t keep Mr Baratheon waiting; he is in a terrible humour.”

            “Is it necessary to change my frock?” asked a wide-eyed Sansa; she turned away from Mrs Cressen to eye herself critically in the looking glass: she had thought her steel blue cotton dress with its white floral motif rather fetching this morning when she had put it on.

            “Yes, you had better: I always dress for the evening when Mr Baratheon is home.” She then smiled sympathetically, their eyes meeting in the looking glass; “Calm yourself, child, do not look so troubled. Come, I shall assist you.”

            This additional ceremony seemed somewhat stately to Sansa: however, with Mrs Cressen’s aid, she replaced her cotton day dress with one made of a deep sapphire silk; the best Sansa had, and the one she had taken the most care over when fashioning her dresses with her mother.

            “Ah yes, very distinguished, Miss Stark. Though you’ll need a brooch,” said the housekeeper. Sansa had a small silver bar brooch her parents had given her on her eighteenth birthday; it consisted of a singular swallow in flight, its body decorated with a smattering of seed pearls, and a little sapphire for its eye; it was one of Sansa’s most precious possessions. She put it on, quickly checking herself once more in the looking glass, and then they advanced downstairs. Sansa let Mrs Cressen precede her into the drawing room, and kept in her shadow as they entered the room.

            Two lit wax candles stood on a table, and two on the mantelpiece; basking in the light and heat of a superb fire, lay Actaeon, with Shireen knelt beside him. Sitting on a high-backed armchair was Mr Baratheon, his leg outstretched before him; his foot supported by a cushioned stool. He was looking at Shireen and the dog: the fire shone full on his face. Her traveller’s visage was exactly as Sansa had preserved it within the halls of her memory; his grim mouth, chin, and jaw – yes, all three were very grim; the casual sweep of his black hair; those dark blue eyes. Mr Baratheon must have been aware of the entrance of Sansa and Mrs Cressen; but it appeared as if he was not in the mood to notice them, for he never lifted his head as they approached.

            “Here is Miss Stark, sir,” said Mrs Cressen, in her quiet way. He bowed his head; still not taking his eyes from his child and dog.

            “Be seated, Miss Stark,” he murmured, gesturing to the seat opposite him by the fire: and there was something in the stiff bow of his head, in the impatient yet formal tone, which seemed further to express, “What should it matter to me whether Miss Stark be here or not?”

            Sansa sat down, determined to appear every bit the calm and collected governess she aspired to be. Yet, she felt interested to see how he would go on; assuming he recognised her from his fall on Durran’s Lane. Perhaps he wouldn’t, she mused. But in that moment, as she was subtly smoothing her skirts, he turned to look at her. He neither spoke, nor moved apart from an almost imperceptible widening of his eyes; he simply stared at her, and Sansa almost shrank back from the intensity of it. Instead, she resolutely held his gaze; thinking back to the somewhat similar look he had given her in the lane, when he had first appraised her.

            “Shall I call for tea, sir?” spoke Mrs Cressen.

            “Yes, do,” he replied gruffly, his eyes still fixed on Sansa’s.

            His housekeeper hastened to ring the bell; and, when the tray came, she proceeded to arrange the cups, spoons, etc., with assiduous celerity. Sansa and Shireen rose and went to the table; but Mr Baratheon did not leave his chair; yet his eyes followed her form for a moment before returning to stare at the fire.

            “Will you hand Mr Baratheon a cup?” said Mrs Cressen to Sansa; “Shireen might perhaps spill it.”

            Sansa did as requested. As she handed him the cup their fingers brushed fleetingly, and she felt once more the full intensity of Mr Baratheon’s stare. Swiftly, she took her seat opposite, smiling in thanks as she accepted her own cup from the housekeeper; Mrs Cressen then settled into a corner with her knitting while Shireen returned to her place beside Actaeon, a small book in her hands. Mr Baratheon took his tea in silence, his eyes absently searching the contents of his cup; perhaps searching its depths for an answer to some unfathomable query, pondered Sansa.

            “You have been resident here for three weeks?” he then said after a small duration, looking at her once more; he searched Sansa’s face with eyes that she perceived as dark, irate, and piercing.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You are the parson Eddard Stark’s eldest daughter; of Winterfell, in north Yorkshire.” He did not phrase his words as a question.

            “You are correct, Mr Baratheon.”

            “And why are you not with the Starks of Winterfell now?” he inquired. “Tell me, Miss Stark—what is your tale of woe?”

            “Sir?” she returned, her pretty features pulling into a frown.

            “All governesses have a tale of woe—what’s yours?”

            Sansa stiffened in her chair, unsure whether to divulge the details of her family’s sorry financial state. “I have no tale of woe, sir,” she said at length.

            The grim line of his mouth seemed to marginally relax, as if this answer amused him in some way; perhaps he does not believe me, thought Sansa, but I do not think it right to share my family’s business with practically a stranger—even if he is my employer.

            “Miss Stark has been an invaluable companion to me, and a kind and careful teacher to Shireen,” Mrs Cressen then interjected, pausing her knitting.

            “Don’t trouble yourself to give her a character,” returned Mr Baratheon, sharply: “I shall judge her for myself.” He paused a moment, then continued. “She began by bewitching my horse.”

            “Sir?” said Mrs Cressen.

            “I have to thank her for this sprain,” he replied darkly.

            His housekeeper looked bewildered; Sansa’s brows once more pulled together in confusion; Mr Baratheon continued to look at her with unflinching intensity.

            “Were you waiting for your people on that lane?”

            “My people, sir?”

            “I mean for the imps, and elves—and little green men,” he said gravely, but with what Sansa thought was a hint of mirth in his stormy blue eyes.

            Not adverse to indulging in fairy tale fantasies herself, Sansa humoured him: “The sad truth is they are all gone: your land is neither wild nor savage enough for them.” Mrs Cressen had dropped her knitting, and with raised eyebrows, seemed to be wondering what sort of talk this was.

            Mr Baratheon appeared to almost smile at her reply; though as soon as the slight hitch at the corner of his mouth appeared, it was gone. He moved his gaze to his daughter, still sitting quietly by the fireside; enjoying the company of Actaeon and her small book. “I have examined my daughter, Miss Stark, and find you have taken great pains with her: she was pale and withdrawn when I first removed her from Greenstone; yet in a short time she has improved.”

            “Thank you, Mr Baratheon.” Sansa looked at her charge fondly, thinking how fortunate she was to have such an amiable, well-mannered little girl as her pupil. Sure enough, though, she felt the full force of her employer’s stare upon her once more.

            “Take Shireen away, Mrs Cressen; her suppertime is surely upon us.”

            Mrs Cressen folded up her knitting; took and placed their cups on the tray, then picked it up; ready to take her leave. “Come, Shireen,” she said softly; and the little girl rose from the floor, her book still clutched in one hand; she walked shyly up to her father’s chair and rising to the tips of her toes, kissed his cheek. Mr Baratheon did not smile at such a sweet display of affection, as Sansa had expected him to do; instead, he hesitantly brushed his fingers lightly against the top of her dark head in return. Shireen offered her father a shy smile in thanks, before joining Mrs Cressen’s side. Sansa rose to join them, sure that Mr Baratheon’s words were a prompt for her dismissal from the drawing room as well.

            “No,” he said suddenly, noticing her movement. Mr Baratheon’s eyes then latched onto Sansa’s, firelight flickering in their stormy depths; “Miss Stark, you will remain seated.”

            He then directed his gaze back to his daughter and housekeeper; they curtseyed to him, received a frigid bow of the head in return, and so withdrew. Sansa felt perplexed that Mr Baratheon would wish to extend their conversation; Mrs Cressen had said he was in a bad humour. Surely, he would wish to take his supper early, and retire soon? I do not know what I can say to amuse him, thought Sansa anxiously. She watched her charge and the housekeeper depart the room, leaving her alone with her employer; although not completely alone, Sansa reminded herself, turning her gaze to Actaeon; still lazing by the fire.

            “Miss Stark.” His grave voice broke through her thoughts. “I am not at ease around children, nor do I particularly enjoy simpleminded old ladies—but you might suit me.”

            “How so, sir?”

            “By distracting me from the mire of my thoughts.”

            Sansa nodded in partial understanding; “Mrs Cressen said you were in a bad humour; does your sprain aggrieve you very much, sir?”

            He let out a sharp, cutting laugh. “Did she, indeed?”

            “Yes, sir.” She then felt her face redden, as she realised her mistake; “Did I speak out of turn, sir?”

            His gaze seemed to flicker a moment from her eyes to her pink tinged cheeks. “No, Miss Stark,” he murmured. Then, gazing darkly into the fire, he continued, “undoubtedly, you will soon find that I am often in a “bad humour,” as my housekeeper terms it.”

            “I am sorry, sir,” she said softly; Sansa gazed at him sadly, with clear, unwavering eyes. At her words he abruptly turned his gaze back to her.

            “Why? —What for?” he returned, incredulously.

            “That you are so often troubled, sir; that you are not happy.”

            “I am happy enough—or rather I _will_ be happy enough; now that my daughter has been returned to Storms End.”

            “Only happy _enough_ , sir?”

            “You’re gaze is very direct, Miss Stark,” he tersely countered; Sansa felt heat flood her features once more. “You are blushing,” he continued. “And now I see you are fascinated by the flowers on the rug.” Sansa felt a defiant urge to remain staring at the floor, and to never look at him again for the duration of this strange, second meeting. She hated to be teased, however, she did not think Mr Baratheon possessed a demeanour that was prone to teasing; Sansa cautiously met his gaze once more.

            “Speak to me, Miss Stark.”

            Accordingly, Sansa said nothing.

            “Are you very hurt by my tone of command?” Mr Baratheon inquired with a degree of mocking, then paused to assess her. “I’ve offended you somehow, haven’t I? Fact is, Miss Stark, I’d like to draw you out; you’ve rather a look of another world about you.”

            She smiled in bemusement, her earlier vexation almost forgotten.

            “The smile is very well,” he said, catching instantly the passing expression, “but speak too.”

            “I assure you, sir, I am the same, plain kind of bird as all the rest—with my common tale of woe,” Sansa smiled sweetly at him, mirth dancing in her clear blue eyes. To her surprise, Mr Baratheon let out a humourless laugh, before descending them into silence.

            “I envy you,” he said at length.

            “How?” Sansa replied quietly, somewhat mystified.

            “Your openness; your unpolluted mind. A memory without blot or taint must be an exquisite treasure: is it not, Miss Stark?”

            “To speak the truth, sir, I do not understand you at all.” She averted her eyes away from his; in that moment they seemed impossibly dark.

            “You are afraid of me,” he stated, bleakly.

            “No, sir.” She looked quickly back at him; his pensive, staring eyes seemed to be assessing the validity of her answer.

            “Goodnight, Miss Stark.” Mr Baratheon made a movement with his hand towards the door, a sign that he was apparently tired of Sansa’s company, and wished to dismiss her. He did not watch her go; his eyes remained fixed upon a particular spot amongst the slowly diminishing flames in the grate.

            “You said Mr Baratheon was not strikingly peculiar, Mrs Cressen,” Sansa observed when she rejoined her for dinner, after putting Shireen to bed.

            “Do you think him so, my dear?”

            “He is very changeful and abrupt.”

            “True: no doubt he may appear so to a stranger, but I am so accustomed to his manner, I never think of it; and then, if he has peculiarities of temper, allowance should be made.”

            “Why?”

            “Partly, because it is his nature—and we can none of us help our nature; and partly, he has painful thoughts, no doubt, to harass him and make his spirits unequal.”

            “Did he love her very much?”

            “Who, my dear?”

            “Why, Mrs Baratheon, of course.”

            Mrs Cressen frowned. “He was a fair husband to her, I’ll say that much; better than many would have been, considering the circumstances.”

            The answer was evasive—Sansa should have liked something clearer; but Mrs Cressen either could not, or would not, give her more explicit information on the origin and nature of Mr Baratheon’s trials. It was evident, indeed, that she wished for her to drop the subject; which Sansa did accordingly.

            For several subsequent days, Sansa saw very little of Mr Baratheon. In the mornings he seemed much engaged in business with his land agent, Mr Seaworth, and in the afternoon, gentlemen from Bronzegate or the neighbourhood called, and sometimes stayed to dine with him. Sansa and Shireen now had to vacate the library: it would be in daily requisition as a reception-room for callers. A fire was lit in an apartment upstairs, and there Sansa carried their books, and arranged them in the new schoolroom. When his sprain was well enough to allow him the use of his horse, Mr Baratheon also rode out a good deal; probably to return these visits, assumed Sansa, as he generally did not come back till late at night. She discerned in the course of the first morning of Mr Baratheon’s return that Storms End was a changed place: no longer silent as a church, it echoed every hour or two to a knock at the door or a clang of the bell; steps, too, often traversed the hall, and new voices spoke in different keys below: a current from the outer world was flowing through it; it had a master: for Sansa’s part, she liked it better.

            During these first few days, even Shireen was seldom sent for to his presence; as a result for a short while she was not easy to teach; she could not apply herself: she kept running to the door and looking over the bannisters to see if she could get a glimpse of her father; then she invented pretexts to go downstairs, in order, as Sansa shrewdly suspected, to visit the library, where she knew Shireen was not wanted. In due course, she settled down. As for Sansa, all her acquaintance with Mr Baratheon was reduced to an occasional meeting in the hall, on the stairs, or in the gallery; when he would sometimes pass her coldly, just acknowledging her presence with a distant nod or cool glance, and sometimes a stiff bow. His strange moods did not offend her, because she saw them as having nothing to do with their interactions; the ebb and flow depended on causes disconnected with her, she surmised.

            It was one afternoon, after the master had been at Storms End for just over a week, that he chanced to meet Sansa in the grounds; Shireen was playing with Actaeon and her shuttlecock, under the watchful eye of Miss Patchett. Sansa was presently exploring the grounds, walking down a long beech avenue, still within sight of her young charge. The air was freezing and sunless, yet she could hear the sweet song of a happy robin; nevertheless, homesickness unexpectedly arose within her, despite the genial birdsong. As her eyes wandered over to where the kept, regimented flatness of the grounds transitioned into steep banks covered with frost tipped grass, and surmounted by mostly bare hedges, Sansa longed intensely for some familiar flower that might recall the woody dales or green hill-sides of home: the heather covered moorlands, of course, were out of the question. Such a discovery would surely make her eyes gush with tears. At length, Sansa spied, high up between the twisted roots of an oak, a smattering of snowdrops, peeping so sweetly from their hiding-place that tears were already beginning to well in her eyes; but she soon found, as she wandered further away from Shireen, Actaeon, and Miss Patchett, that they grew too high above her. In vain, Sansa tried to gather one or two; she could not reach them unless she climbed the bank, which Sansa was deterred from doing as at that moment she heard footsteps behind her. She was, therefore, about to turn away and return back to her charge, when she was startled by the grave, low tones of Mr Baratheon.

            “Allow me, Miss Stark.”

            Immediately the flowers were gathered, and in Sansa’s hand.

            “Thank you, sir.” She blushed profusely; Sansa was certain that she could not have expressed half the gratitude she felt. It was foolish, perhaps, to feel any gratitude at all; but it seemed to her, at that moment, as if this were a remarkable instance of Mr Baratheon’s good nature: an act of kindness which Sansa could not repay, but should never forget: so utterly unaccustomed was she to receiving such civilities, so little prepared to expect them from anyone, let alone Mr Baratheon. Yet this did not prevent her from feeling a little uncomfortable in his presence; and Sansa proceeded to walk back from whence she came at a much quicker pace than before; the master of the house did not appear to take the hint and let her pass. A somewhat rapid walk for her was but an ordinary pace for him.

            “You have abandoned my daughter,” he stated simply.

            “Yes, but she is well attended to by Miss Patchett and Actaeon,” Sansa hurried to reply; she was concerned that Mr Baratheon spoke his words disapprovingly, although she could not be sure; Sansa found her employer’s manner excessively perplexing.

            “Then don’t trouble yourself by rushing to join them.”

            Sansa slackened her pace; but in the next moment regretted having done so: her companion did not speak; and she knew not what to say, and feared he might be in the same predicament. At length, however, Mr Baratheon broke the pause by asking, with a certain quiet abruptness peculiar to himself, if she liked flowers.

            “Yes; very much,” she answered shyly: “wild flowers especially.”

            He nodded slightly, staring at the path ahead of them, pensively. “And your favourites?” he then said.

            “Snowdrops, bluebells, heath-blossoms, sweet violets, forget-me-nots, lily of the valley, stocks,” she paused to take a breath; “primroses, dog roses, and blue winter roses.”

            Mr Baratheon huffed. “All the flowers in England, by the sounds of it.”

            “Almost,” Sansa replied, smiling sheepishly.

            They continued on in a somewhat companionable silence. Sansa endeavoured to mimic Mr Baratheon’s pace, which was slow, as though he wished to somehow prolong their walk; she quickly dismissed this thought as nonsensical: he had hardly acknowledged her that morning on the stairs—why would he take such pains to converse with her now?

            “I like this day,” he then suddenly declared, slightly upturning his head to better take in the moody skyline. “I like that sky of steel; and the sternness and stillness of the world under this frost.” He spoke almost carefully, in a way that seemed to suggest to Sansa that he was unused to expressing his own personal thoughts so openly. “I like Storms End too,” he continued, “so consumed I was in town with other matters, I forgot how much I missed it; its antiquity; its seclusion; its grey façade. Yet it feels like not so long ago I abhorred the very thought of it; shunned it like a great plague-house! How I still do abhor—”

            He ground his teeth and was silent: he arrested his step and struck his boot against the hard ground. Some hated thought seemed to have him in its grip, and held him so tightly so that he could not advance.

            They were ascending the avenue when he thus paused; Storms End was before them. Lifting his eyes to its battlements, he cast over them a glare such as Sansa had never seen before or since. Pain, shame, ire—impatience, guilt, detestation—seemed momentarily to hold a quivering conflict in the large pupils dilating under his ebon brows. But another feeling soon rose and triumphed: something hard and cynical; self-willed and resolute: it settled his passion and petrified his countenance: he turned to face her.

            “Do you know how my wife died, Miss Stark?” he asked, with solemnity.

            Sansa stared dumbly back at him; she was shocked at the boldness of this peculiar man before her. First we speak of flowers, now death, thought Sansa; a very peculiar and morose man indeed.

            “Surely you have an interest?” he continued, petulantly; “inquisitive and fanciful, young lady that you are. Well, Miss Stark?”

            Before she could fathom a reply, Shireen bounded up to them, shuttlecock and racket in hand, and Miss Patchett trailing behind her.

            “Papa, won’t you let Miss Stark come play with me now?” she said, panting a little. Shireen looked up at her father with wide, pleading eyes. Waking out of his scowling abstraction, Mr Baratheon turned his eyes to his daughter, and the shade seemed to clear off his brow.

            He nodded his assent, before returning his gaze back to Sansa; “I must go in now; and you should too: it darkens.”

            But Sansa stayed out a few minutes longer with Shireen and Actaeon—Miss Patchett having feigned a chill soon after the master had departed. She ran a race with her, and played a game of badminton. When they went in and Sansa had removed her bonnet and coat, she took Shireen on her knee; kept her there an hour, allowing her to merrily chat away while Sansa sought in her countenance and features their likeness to her father, Mr Baratheon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed the chapter- as always, reviews are very much appreciated! :) x


	5. The Caged Starling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely reviews! Hope you all enjoy this latest chapter :)
> 
> I've included two more little mood boards I made for this chapter - again, sorry if the quality is a little fuzzy.
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

One morning, while Shireen quietly puzzled over some sums, Sansa began sketching a face. Their little schoolroom was cheerily dappled in the light of the morning sun, and a pleasant hush hung about the pair. Sansa took a soft black pencil, sharpened it to a broad point, and worked away; what sort of face it was to be, she did not care or know. Strongly marked eyebrows were traced under a well-founded brow; then, naturally, a well-defined nose, with a straight ridge; after that came a serious-looking mouth; then, a firm chin and jaw. Next, of course, was some black hair, tufted on the temples, and waved above the forehead. Now for the eyes: Sansa had left them last, because they required the most careful working. She drew them slowly, shaping them well: the eyelashes she traced long and sombre, the irises lustrous and piercing. Not quite satisfied, Sansa wrought the shades even darker to enable the lighter tones to flash more brilliantly—a happy touch or two secured success.

            To her surprise, Sansa found Mr Baratheon’s face under her gaze; she softly smiled at its near perfect likeness.

            Now finding herself at a loose end, having completed her drawing, Sansa let her mind wander to the time she had spent with her employer, walking along the beech avenue. There had been something decidedly strange about the myriad of melancholy emotions which suddenly seized him, when he was in the act of expressing the present contentment of his mood, and his newly revived pleasure in Storms End and its environs. Sansa meditated wonderingly on this incident, sure that it had something to do with the late Mrs Baratheon: but gradually quitting it, as she found it for the present inexplicable, Sansa glanced at her pupil; Shireen was contentedly jotting down numbers and drawing out long division brackets—but was by no means finished with the task she had set her.

            Sansa absentmindedly tapped the end of her pencil against the back of her hand, in thought; when Mr Baratheon had met her unexpectedly, the encounter seemed welcome, and for a little while he had been as close to amiable as Sansa had ever seen him. Oh, but he was still a moody man; unaccountably so: when Sansa had been sent to inform him of his daughter’s progress, she had found Mr Baratheon sitting in his library alone, with his head bent on folded arms; and, when he looked up, a morose, almost a malignant scowl, darkened his features. But Sansa believed that his moodiness and his harshness had their source in some cruel twist of fate. She could not deny that she grieved for his grief, and would have given much to assuage it; whether it be for his late wife, or some other misfortune.

            “Is this how you perceive me, Miss Stark?”

            Sansa turned abruptly, her nose almost brushing against Mr Baratheon’s waistcoat; he had quietly slipped into the room without her noticing and was now standing quite close to her chair, peering over her shoulder. It struck her, at first, as very odd, that just as she was thinking about him that he should suddenly appear before her—his eyes as tempestuous and penetrating as the pair in her drawing. But, on due reflection, Sansa thought there really should be nothing odd about it; for on such a quiet morning and in his own abode, it was natural enough that he should take the time to pay his daughter a visit.

            “Well,” said Mr Baratheon at length, somewhat self-consciously, “how fierce I am.”

            Sansa blushed and let out a huff of embarrassment as she turned away from him, attempting to shuffle her papers in order to hide her drawing—but she was intercepted by Shireen’s small hand. Pulling out the sheet of paper in question, Shireen proceeded to hold it aloft so that she might better take in the two faces of her father.

            “Oh! It looks just like you, papa! Miss Stark, you are clever; you must draw me as well—and Actaeon, of course!” Sansa laughed fondly at the young girl’s enthusiasm.

            “Would you like me to draw you as you are? Or as an empress or fairy queen, perhaps?”

            “Surely, Shireen,” interjected Mr Baratheon, “you have some task or other to finish, and should therefore desist in pestering Miss Stark?” He shifted his weight slightly, as if uncomfortable, yet maintained his close proximity behind Sansa’s chair.

            His daughter frowned back at him: “I’ve just finished my sums, _actually_.” Mr Baratheon’s mouth quirked up at one corner, but only slightly.

            “Completion is no guarantee of accuracy,” he replied, sternly.

            Sansa smiled in bemusement at the pair before outstretching her hand in a dramatic fashion; she quickly accepted the proffered paper and set about marking Shireen’s work. The little girl watched her with hopeful, innocent eyes. A few minutes had passed when Sansa heard a quiet cough behind her; she turned to look at Mr Baratheon, whose eyes would not meet hers, and were instead fixed upon the paper in front of her.

            “Sir?”

            “Number seven is incorrect.”

            “Yes, well, I haven’t got to that one yet, sir.”

            “Oh—forgive me, Miss Stark.”

            “You are forgiven.” Sansa smiled up at him, laughter twinkling in her light blue eyes. He glanced briefly back at her, their eyes meeting.

            “I should be going. Good day, Miss Stark—Shireen.” He swiftly retreated from behind Sansa’s chair, and with a stiff bow he promptly exited the room.

            She watched him leave and frowned: she hoped she had not embarrassed or offended him in some way with her drawing; though, if he was terribly embarrassed he did not have to linger on as he did. She turned back to Shireen’s sums, and attempted to give them her full attention; but try as she might, she could not help but ponder at Mr Baratheon’s strange behaviour.

            Since that morning, the master of the house began to almost habitually, yet still unexpectedly, visit them in the schoolroom; he would remain mostly silent for the short duration of his stay, only injecting or adding something to their little discussion intermittently. Additionally, Sansa sometimes caught Mr Baratheon watching them from various windows as she and Shireen chased each other about the grounds; at times he would meet them there, though he never joined in with their revelries; he was instead content to just watch them, in that intense, contemplative way, which Sansa was beginning to recognise as distinctly particular to him.

            It was on one such occasion, when Sansa had taken a moment’s repose from playing with Shireen and Actaeon, to sit and read her book on a nearby bench, that Mr Baratheon chanced upon her; much like how he had met her when she had been attempting to pick snowdrops; that is, he appeared quite suddenly.

            “You are alone again, Miss Stark.” He stood purposefully before her, his coat tails fluttering slightly in the afternoon breeze.

            “Yes.” Sansa gazed up at him; she had long become accustomed to his sudden appearances, so much so that they no longer startled her as they once did.

            “What are you reading?”

            “Laurence Sterne’s _A Sentimental Journey_.”

            He nodded stiffly: “Yes, I know it—I’ve a copy in my library.”

            “It is the very same,” replied Sansa, watching his face carefully.

            “Ah, yes—so it is.”

            She bit her lip, worrying it slightly: “I’ve not done wrong in borrowing it—have I, sir?”

            “No!” he exclaimed. “You are very welcome to it, Miss Stark.”

            They stared at each other a moment longer until Mr Baratheon abruptly turned away from her at the sound of barking and Shireen’s girlish laughter. He smiled faintly, looking back at Sansa; she was contemplating the book on her lap, caressing its worn pages lovingly.

            “Will you—would you indulge me, Miss Stark?”

            Sansa looked up at him, quizzically.

            He cleared his throat, awkwardly; his eyes flickered from hers to the book in her hands: Sansa soon gaged his meaning.

            “Oh! If it please you, sir.” He did not respond; he proceeded to fiddle with the cuff of his tailcoat, and then to look back momentarily at his daughter, while he waited for Sansa to find her place and begin.

            She scanned the old leather bound volume carefully before finding a suitable passage. She then nervously cleared her throat in preparation, but also to regain Mr Baratheon’s attention; it did, and he promptly turned round to face her once more.

            “I was interrupted,” Sansa began, somewhat hesitantly, “in the heyday of this soliloquy, with a voice which I took to be of a child, which complained ‘it could not get out.’—I looked up and down the passage, and seeing neither man, woman, or child, I went out without further attention.”

            Pausing, she glanced quickly up at Mr Baratheon, who nodded stiffly, yet nevertheless encouragingly, for her to continue.

            “In my return back through the passage, I heard the same words repeated twice over; and looking up, I saw it was a starling hung in a little cage—‘I can’t get out—I can’t get out,’ said the starling.”

            Her confidence bolstered, Sansa read aloud in a clear and animated voice; Mr Baratheon watched and listened to her with rapt attention.

            “I stood looking at the bird,” spoke Sansa, “and to every person who came through the passage it ran fluttering to the side towards which they approached it, with the same lamentation of its captivity—‘I can’t get out,’ said the starling—God help thee! said I, but I’ll let thee out, cost what it will; so I turned about the cage to get to the door; it was twisted and double twisted so fast with wire, there was no getting it open without pulling the cage to pieces—I took both hands to it.”

            She peeked up at him once more, through lowered lashes; their eyes met; Sansa took an unsteady breath.

            “The bird flew to the place where I was attempting his deliverance, and thrusting his head through the trellis, pressed his breast against it, as if impatient—I fear, poor creature! said I, I cannot set thee at liberty. —‘No,’ said the starling—‘I can’t get out—I can’t get out,’ said the starling.”

            Sansa gently closed the book, smoothing her hand across its cover; she then lifted her head in order to meet her employer’s eyes and to measure his satisfaction. A waft of wind came sweeping down the beech avenue, and trembled through the boughs of the trees. Mr Baratheon stood quietly, still looking at her. Some time passed before he spoke; at last he said:

            “You read well, Miss Stark.”

            “Thank you, sir.” Sansa felt her face redden under his intense, yet oddly tender scrutiny. Her eyes, though, those rich gifts of nature—so fine, full, and clear, they remained steadfast in their observation of him.

            “Till this evening, Miss Stark.” Mr Baratheon then bowed and swiftly departed; and just as she often did, Sansa watched him go and wondered at his peculiar manner.

            That evening, soon after he had finished his solitary dinner, Mr Baratheon rang the bell: a message came that Sansa and Shireen were to go downstairs. Sansa brushed Shireen’s hair and made her neat, and having changed into her sapphire blue silk, they descended.

            “Miss Stark?” came the deep voice of Mr Baratheon, from the depths of his immense armchair at the fireside; he had half risen from his seat to look round to the door, near which Sansa still stood; Shireen had happily, and swiftly scampered over to her father to sit at his feet.

            “Come forward: be seated,” he murmured, gesturing with one hand to the chair opposite his own. Sansa did as she was bid; Mr Baratheon had such a direct way of giving orders, it seemed a matter of course to obey him promptly.

            “Should we call for Mrs Cressen, sir?” she inquired; Sansa was very fond of the old lady and worried over her exclusion from their little gathering. Mr Baratheon stared at her quizzically for a moment, but then nodded his assent; he rang the bell and despatched an invitation to Mrs Cressen, who soon arrived, knitting basket in hand.

            “Good-evening, sir,” she said, in a cheery voice; she took her place in her usual corner. Mr Baratheon merely bowed his head in her general direction.

            The large fire was all red and blazing; the heavy curtains hung rich and ample before the lofty window and loftier arch: everything was still, save the quiet chat of Shireen as she began to recount that day’s lessons to her father, and, filling up each pause, the beating of winter rain against the panes.

            Mr Baratheon, as he sat in his damask-covered chair, looked different to how Sansa had seen him look before—not quite so stern, and much less gloomy. Still, he looked affectedly grim, cushioning his head against the swelling back of his chair, and receiving the light of the fire on his granite-hewn features, and in his great, dark eyes—for he had great, dark eyes, and very fine eyes, too: not without a certain change in their depths sometimes, which, if it was not softness, reminded you, at least of that feeling.

            He had been looking for a few minutes at the fire, and Sansa had been looking the same length of time at him, when, turning suddenly, he caught her gaze, fastened on his physiognomy.

            “And then we practiced scales in the library until my suppertime—Miss Stark is a very talented pianist, papa; you should have her play for you,” concluded Shireen, gazing up at her father from her place by his feet.

            “You have an abundance of talents, Miss Stark—Mr Reed’s _glowing_ recommendation of you was not unfounded, it seems.”

            “Thank you, sir—my mother took great pains to teach me all that I now know.” Sansa blushed, and averted her eyes away from his to instead look at Shireen; she was eagerly glancing back and forth from Sansa to her father. Mr Baratheon caught his daughter’s eye and seemed to understand her intentions.

            “Shireen is right; play something for us—if you have the memory to do so, as well as the inclination, that is.” Sansa at once felt keen to please her charge and master, yet apprehension also fought a course within her; she did her best to school her emotions before replying:

            “Of course.”

            Mrs Cressen clapped her hands together in delight and smiled at her encouragingly. Sansa rose slowly from her seat and proceeded towards the pianoforte; it was tucked away at one end of the room, yet still in view of the smouldering fire. She sat down gingerly, smoothing down her skirts in an attempt to calm herself, as she chanced a quick look at Mr Baratheon.

            At the announcement of her acquiescence, he had risen from his chair, and now stood, leaning his arm on the marble mantelpiece: in that attitude his shape—his strong breadth of chest and tall frame—could be seen plainly by Sansa. She was sure most people would not have thought him a terribly handsome man, not in the traditional sense; yet there was so much unconscious pride in his deportment; such a look of complete indifference to his own external appearance; so haughty a reliance on the power of other qualities, that in looking at him, one inevitably shared the indifference; and even in a blind, imperfect sense, put faith in the confidence.

            Feeling suddenly self-conscious at having delayed her performance by assessing Mr Baratheon’s form, Sansa promptly began; her fine, tapered fingers carefully, yet skilling moved across the keys; the room soon filled with the sound of gentle music.* Her small audience listened, enraptured by the melodic tones; Sansa persevered with great concentration, determined to perform without fault. Mr Baratheon turned away from the fire to watch her; if she felt his gaze upon her, she made no indication of it. At her performance’s conclusion, Sansa looked up and met his all-pervading eyes—her own softly gleaming with pride; Shireen and Mrs Cressen broke out in applause, both voicing numerous “bravos!”

            “You play very well, Miss Stark,” spoke Mr Baratheon, softly, as if still somewhat entranced by her performance.

            “Thank you, sir; it’s one of my favourites.”

            “What is it?”

            “Schumann’s _Romance Opus Twenty-Eight, Number Two_.”

            “You play it very beautifully.”

            “I suppose one’s own enjoyment at playing has something to do with it,” replied Sansa, with a slight blush and a small smile.

            They spent the rest of the evening discussing books. Mr Baratheon passed to different books and writers in particular—other works by Lawrence Sterne, for instance; the popularity of Charles Dickens; the serial format; Alfred Tennyson’s two volume _Poems_ ; in particular, its second volume of newer poetry. They proceeded with rapid transitions from topic to topic, till several matters, both of taste and opinion, had been discussed considerably, but without the embellishment of many observations from Mr Baratheon; he being evidently less bent upon communicating his own thoughts and predilections than discovering Sansa’s.

            “Where are you going?” he queried, as Sansa began to rise from her seat.

            “To put Shireen to bed: it is past her bedtime.”

            “Is it? Pray tell me, what time is it?”

            “It has struck nine, sir.” The evening was pitch-dark: star and moon were quenched in grey rain-clouds.

            “Goodnight, then, Miss Stark—Shireen, Mrs Cressen.” But the old lady was already dozing in her chair, unable to hear her master; Sansa gently roused her.

            “Goodnight, Mr Baratheon,” Sansa replied, while holding her charge’s small hand in hers; they and Mrs Cressen then curtsied, and swiftly departed.

            Having withdrawn to her own chamber for the night, Sansa’s first impulse was to sink into her bed; and laying her head on the pillow, to seek relief in its cool surface so that she might soothe the flush of her cheeks. Once divested of her sapphire silk dress, and in her nightgown, snugly tucked in bed, she began to steadily review the evening. When summoned by formal invitation to Mr Baratheon’s presence, Sansa was honoured by a cordiality of reception which made her feel she really possessed the power to amuse him, and that these evening conferences were sought as much for his pleasure as for her benefit. He, indeed, talked comparatively little; but he had listened attentively while she spoke with relish. It was not in his nature to be communicative. Yet, her ease of manner freed him from painful restraint. Sansa felt at times, as if he were her relation, rather than her master: yet he was still imperious sometimes; but she did not mind that; she saw it was simply his way.

            Sansa hardly knew whether she had slept or not after this musing; at any rate she startled wide-awake on hearing a vague murmur, peculiar and mournful, which sounded, she thought, just above her. Sansa wished she had kept her candle burning: the night was drearily dark. She rose and sat up in bed, listening. The sound was hushed.

            Sansa tried again to sleep, but her heart beat anxiously: her inward tranquillity was broken. The clock, far down in the hall, struck two. Just then it seemed Sansa’s chamber-door was touched, as if someone had swept past the panels in a groping way along the dark gallery outside.

            “Who is there?” she said in a quaking voice.

            Nothing answered. Sansa was chilled with fear.

            All at once she remembered that it might be Actaeon: who, when the kitchen-door chanced to be left open, often found his way up to the threshold of Mr Baratheon’s chamber: Sansa had seen him lying there herself, in the mornings. The idea calmed her somewhat: she lay down. Silence composes the nerves; and as an unbroken hush now reigned again through the whole house, she began to feel the return of slumber. But it was not fated that she should sleep that night. A dream had scarcely taken hold, when it fled affrighted, scared by a marrow-freezing sound.

            It was a demoniac laugh—low, suppressed, and deep—uttered, as it seemed, at the very keyhole of Sansa’s chamber door. The head of her bed was near the door, and Sansa thought at first the laughter came from her bedside—or rather, crouched by her pillow: but she rose, looked round, and could see nothing; as she still gazed, the unnatural sound was reiterated: and Sansa knew it came from behind the panels. Her first impulse was to rise and fasten the bolt of her door; her next, again to cry out, “Who is there?”

            Something gurgled and moaned. Before long, steps retreated up the gallery towards the third story staircase: a door had lately been made shut in that staircase; Sansa heard it open and close, and all was still.

            It seemed now impossible to remain any longer by herself: she must go to Mrs Cressen. Sansa hurried on her shoes and a shawl; she withdrew the bolt and opened the door with a trembling hand. It was pitch-black outside her chamber. That is, until the flickering glow of candlelight emerged from the darkness; it was Mr Baratheon, in his bedclothes and dressing gown.

            He came to a halting stop in front of her, and stared down at her with an almost haunted look upon his face. Immeasurably grateful for his sudden arrival, Sansa proceeded to briefly relate to him, in hushed tones, what had transpired: the strange laugh she had heard: the steps ascending to the third story.

            He listened very gravely, inching steadily closer to her; his face, as Sansa went on, expressed more concern than astonishment; he did not immediately speak when she had concluded.

            “Shall I go to Mrs Cressen?” she asked.

            “Mrs Cressen? No—let her sleep undisturbed.”

            “What should I do then, sir?” whispered Sansa.

            “Just be still.”

            Mr Baratheon took a moment to assess her; Sansa’s face was pale with fright; her red hair shone under the light of his candle. He inched even closer to her.

            “I am going to leave you for a few minutes,” he then murmured. “Remain where you are till I return. Don’t move, remember, or call anyone.”

            He went: Sansa watched the light withdraw. He passed up the gallery very softly, opened the staircase door with as little noise as possible, shut it after him, and the last ray vanished. She was left in total darkness. Sansa listened for some noise, but heard nothing. Time elapsed. She grew weary: it was cold, in spite of her shawl. She was on the point of risking Mr Baratheon’s displeasure, by disobeying his orders and returning to her chamber, when the light once more gleamed dimly on the gallery-wall; she heard his bare feet tread the floor. I hope it is he, worried Sansa, and not something worse.

            He reappeared before her, pale and very gloomy. “It is as I thought,” he murmured.

            “How, sir?”

            He made no reply, and looked at the ground. At the end of a few minutes, he inquired in a rather peculiar tone:

            “I forget whether you said you saw anything when you opened your chamber door.”

            “No, sir.”

            “But you heard an odd laugh?”

            “Yes.”

            “I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of tonight. You are no talking fool: say nothing about it.”

            Sansa nodded numbly back at him.

            He paused; gazed at her: words almost visible trembled on his lips—but his voice was checked.

            “Goodnight, then, sir,” she said, departing.

            “Goodnight, Miss Stark,” he all but whispered.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * Sansa's piano piece = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wzq31W94HmU 
> 
> Robert Schumann, (1810-1856), was a German composer, widely regarded as one of the greatest composers of the Romantic era. I chose this piece because it was published in 1839 so would have been around for a bit, before this story takes place - 'Jane Eyre' was published in 1847, which is when I'm roughly setting this story too. Also this piece is very romantic so I thought Sansa would probably like it a lot - I hope you do too!
> 
> Other nerdy side notes:
> 
> \- Laurence Sterne, (1713-1768), was an Irish novelist and Anglican clergyman. He also wrote 'The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy' - which is regarded as one of the greatest comic novels in English. I included that little extract because it also appears in Austen's Mansfield Park, though I was more inspired by the 1999 adaptation which diverges from the book a bit. In the movie, Henry Crawford reads it to Fanny Price in a deserted library, and it's meant to hint towards his growing attraction towards her. Also I just think it's a really interesting extract which is meaningful in different ways, depending on who is reading/being read to...;)
> 
> \- Serialised fiction, (often a work of narrative fiction, which is published in sequential instalments), surged in popularity during the Victorian era. A significant majority of novels from the Victorian era actually first appeared in either monthly or weekly instalments in magazines or newspapers. The wild success of Charles Dickens' 'The Pickwick Papers,' first published in 1836, is widely considered to have established the viability and appeal of the serialised format within periodical literature.
> 
> \- Alfred, Lord Tennyson, (1809-1892), was Poet Laureate of Great Britain and Ireland during much of Queen Victoria's reign, and was very popular during his time. The two volume 'Poems' I refer to was published in 1842 and contains a number of Arthurian legend inspired poems (like The Lady of Shalott), which I think Sansa would probably quite like. 
> 
> Anyway! Hope you enjoyed this chapter and its mysterious ending... ;) As always, reviews are very much appreciated x


	6. Gone, But Soon Returned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the reviews :) Hope you enjoy this new chapter.
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Sansa both wished and feared to see Mr Baratheon on the day which followed that sleepless night: she wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eyes. But the morning passed by with nothing to interrupt the quiet course of Shireen’s studies. By the time evening approached, she had heard neither Mr Baratheon’s voice nor step in the house all day; but surely I will see him at some point, she thought. Sansa had feared a meeting this morning; now she desired it.

            When dusk actually closed, and when Shireen left her to go play in the nursery with Miss Patchett, Sansa did most keenly desire it. She listened for the bell to ring below; she listened for Justine coming up with a message; Sansa fancied sometimes that she heard Mr Baratheon’s own tread, and she would turn to the door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut. Still it was not late: he often sent for her at seven and eight o’clock, and it was not yet six. Sansa wanted desperately to reintroduce the subject of the late Mrs Baratheon, and to hear how he would answer; she wanted to ask him plainly what was going on last night; whose laughter was that?

            A tread creaked on the stairs at last; Justine made her appearance; but it was only to tell Sansa that tea was ready in Mrs Cressen’s room. She was glad to at least go downstairs, for that brought her, Sansa imagined, nearer to Mr Baratheon’s presence.

            “You must want your tea,” said the housekeeper, as Sansa joined her; “you have eaten so little today, my dear. I am afraid,” she continued, “you are not well today: you look flushed and feverish.”

            “Oh, I am quite well!”

            “Then you must prove it by demonstrating a good appetite; will you fill the tea-pot while I knit off this needle?” Sansa did as she asked. After a little while, Mrs Cressen spoke again:

            “It is fair tonight,” she said, as she looked through the window, “though not enough for starlight; Mr Baratheon has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey.”

            “Journey! Is Mr Baratheon gone anywhere? I did not know he was out.”

            “Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to Parchments; Mr Penrose’s place; I believe there is quite a party assembled there; Robert Kingsley Baratheon—the master’s cousin—Colonel Tarth, Sir Mace Tyrell, and others.”

            “Do you expect him back tonight?”

            “Well, I am not sure: Mr Baratheon has never been overly fond of parties or large gatherings. Though, I should think he might perhaps stay a week or more: when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety; so well provided with all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate.”

            “But, as you say, he is not fond of such socialising: why then, would he go?” queried Sansa, her brow furrowing.

            “My dear, it is not our place to question the master’s comings and goings! Perhaps he wishes to see his cousin?”

            “I apologise: I am simply curious—perhaps too much so,” Sansa confessed sheepishly.

            “No harm done, my dear.” The old lady smiled kindly, and reached across the table to pat Sansa’s hand.

            “Are there ladies at Parchments?” she then asked.

            “There are Mrs Penrose and her three daughters—very elegant young ladies, indeed; Colonel Tarth’s daughter; Mr Kingsley Baratheon’s wife, and their daughter, Myrcella; and there is the Honourable Margaery Tyrell, who is considered to be a very beautiful woman. Indeed, a few years back—while his cousin and his family were visiting—Mr Baratheon held a Christmas ball here—though, I do think his cousin, Robert, put him up to it; the master was not at all pleased to host such an occasion; he considered it a frivolous expenditure. But I digress—Miss Tyrell was there, at the Christmas ball. Oh, you should have seen the dining room that day, Miss Stark—how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present—all of the finest families in the county and beyond; and Miss Margaery was considered the belle of the evening.”

            “You saw her, Mrs Cressen?”

            “Yes, I saw her. The dining room doors were thrown open; and, as it was Christmastime, the servants were allowed to assemble in the hall, to hear some of the ladies perform at the piano. Mr Baratheon would not have me come in, and I sat down in a quiet corner and watched them. I never saw a more splendid scene: the ladies were magnificently dressed; most of them—at least most of the younger ones—looked handsome; but Miss Tyrell was certainly the queen.”

            “And what was she like?”

            “A slender, but womanly figure, with sloping shoulders; a long, graceful neck. She is of fair complexion, pale and clear; noble features, with a fine head of hair; soft brown, and so becomingly arranged: a crown of thick plaits behind, and in front the longest, glossiest curls I ever saw. She was dressed in pure white, with yellow and peach coloured roses in her hair.”

            “I can imagine, from such a description, that she must have been greatly admired,” sighed Sansa, wistfully.

            “Yes, indeed,” nodded Mrs Cressen, “and not only for her beauty, but for her accomplishments. She was one of the ladies who performed; I am no real judge of music, but I heard Mr Baratheon say her execution was quite proficient.” Sansa’s heart strangely sank a little; she wondered whether her playing last night had been as pleasing to Mr Baratheon as Miss Tyrell’s?

            “And this beautiful and accomplished lady is not yet married?”

            “It appears not: I suspect she does not have a very large fortune. Sir Mace’s estates are chiefly entailed, so his eldest son, Willas, will inherit almost everything.”

            “But I wonder no wealthy nobleman or gentleman has taken a fancy to her: Mr Baratheon, for instance. He is rich, is he not?”

            “Oh, yes! But I should scarcely think Mr Baratheon would entertain such an idea: I think he is quite content in his widowhood.” Sansa was again about to inquire as to the probability of a union between Mr Baratheon and the beautiful Margaery; but Shireen came in, and the conversation was turned into another direction. A week passed, and no news arrived of Mr Baratheon, until the post brought Mrs Cressen a letter.

            “It is from the master,” she said. “Now I suppose we shall know when he will return, or if perhaps he is off to London again.”

            And while she broke the seal and perused the document, Sansa went on drinking her coffee (they were at breakfast); she attributed the sudden fiery glow of her cheeks to its heat. Why her hand shook, and why she involuntarily split half the contents of her cup into her saucer, Sansa did not choose to consider.

            “Well—I sometimes think we are too quiet; but we run a chance of being busy enough now: for a little while at least,” said Mrs Cressen, still holding the note before her spectacles.

            “Is he to return soon?” inquired Sansa, as she retied the string of Shireen’s pinafore, which had come loose; it having come undone while she was reaching across the table to help herself to another bun, and to refill her mug with milk.

            “Indeed, he is—in three days, he says; and not alone either! He says his cousin has forced him into continuing the gathering at Storms End. He seems very vexed by this, but says there is nothing to be done to prevent it happening now! I don’t know how many of the fine people at Parchments are coming with him—beside the Kingsley Baratheons, I assume: but he sends directions for all the best bedrooms to be prepared; and the library and drawing-rooms are to be cleaned out; and I am to get more kitchen hands from the Stag Inn, at Felwood, and from wherever else I can; and the ladies will bring their maids and gentlemen their valets; so we shall have a full house of it.” Mrs Cressen then quickly swallowed her breakfast and hastened away to commence operations.

            The three days were, as she had foretold, very busy. Sansa had thought all the rooms at Storms End beautifully clean and well arranged: but it appears she was mistaken. Three maids were set the task of scrubbing, brushing, beating carpets, polishing mirrors, lighting fires in bedrooms, and airing sheets and feather beds on hearths. Sansa and Shireen were exonerated of their school duties: Mrs Cressen had pressed Sansa into her service. So Sansa was all day in the storeroom, helping her and the cook; learning to make custards, fruit curds, and French pastry; and to truss game and garnish dessert-dishes.

            The party were expected to arrive on Thursday afternoon, in time for dinner at six. Thursday came: all work had been completed the previous evening; carpets were laid down, bed-hangings festooned, radiant white counterpanes spread, toilette tables arranged, furniture cleaned, hothouse flowers piled in vases: both chambers and saloons looked as fresh and bright as hands could make them. The hall, too, was scoured; and the great, carved clock, as well as the steps and banisters of the staircase, were polished to the brightness of glass; in the dinning room, the sideboard flashed resplendent with silver plate; in the drawing room and boudoir vases of exotics bloomed on all sides.

            Afternoon arrived: Mrs Cressen donned her best black satin gown and her gold pocket watch; for it was her part to receive the guests—to conduct the ladies to their rooms. Shireen, too, was dressed: Miss Patchett had apparelled her in one of Shireen’s short, full muslin frocks. Sansa assumed that there was no need for her to change into her blue silk; she should not be called upon to quit her sanctum of the schoolroom, surely. It had been a mild, serene day: one of those March days, which rise shining over the earth as heralds of spring.

            “It gets late,” said Mrs Cressen, entering the schoolroom in a rustling state. “Usually the master is so prompt—Well! I am glad I ordered dinner an hour after the time Mr Baratheon mentioned; for it is past six now. I have sent Devan down to the gates to see if there is anything on the road.” She went to the window. “Here he is!” Then opening it and leaning out, she said, “well, Devan, any news?”

            “They’re coming, ma’am,” replied Devan. “They’ll be here in ten minutes, I’d wager.”

            Shireen flew to the window. Sansa followed.

            The ten minutes Devan had estimated seemed very long, but at last wheels were heard; four equestrians galloped up the drive, and after them came two carriages. Two of the cavaliers were young, dashing looking gentlemen; the third was Mr Baratheon, on his black Friesian, Fury; Actaeon bounding before him: at his side rode a lady, and he and she were the first of the party. Her forest green riding-habit almost swept the ground, her veil streamed long on the breeze; mingling with its transparent folds, and gleaming through them, shone rich russet ringlets.

            “Papa!”

            “—Miss Tyrell!” exclaimed Shireen and Mrs Cressen in unison; the later soon hurried away to her post below.

            The procession, following the sweep of the drive, quickly turned the angle of the house, and Sansa lost sight of it. A joyous stir was now audible from the hall below: gentlemen’s deep tones, and ladies’ silvery voices blended harmoniously together. However, to Sansa’s ears, there was a tone distinguishable above all others: the sonorous, though not loud, voice of the master of Storms End, somewhat begrudgingly welcoming his guests under its roof. Then the light steps of the ladies ascended the stairs; there was soft, cheerful laughs, and opening and closing of doors, and, then, for a time, a hush.

            “Do you think we will see papa this evening, Miss Stark?” said Shireen; who, listening attentively, had followed every movement; she sighed.

            “I suspect he will be very busy attending to his guests, Shireen,” Sansa replied, reaching out to gently stroke the little girl’s head. “Come now, I won’t have you moping! Are you hungry?”

            Shireen nodded softly, and then leaned into Sansa’s side, sighing once more; Sansa removed her hand from Shireen’s head, placing it on her little shoulder instead, and giving it a comforting squeeze.

            “Well now, while the ladies are in their rooms, I will venture down and get you something to eat.”

            Departing from the schoolroom with precaution, she sought a backstairs that led directly to the kitchen. The whole room was full of commotion; the soup and fish were in the last stage of completion, and the cook hung over her pots and vessels in a frame of mind and body threatening spontaneous combustion. In the servant’s hall, two coachmen and three gentlemen’s gentlemen stood or sat round the fire, yet soon directed their gazes towards Sansa as she walked past; the ladies maids, she supposed, were upstairs with their mistresses: the new servants that had been hired from Felwood, were bustling about everywhere. Threading this chaos, Sansa at last reached the larder; there she took possession of a cold chicken, a roll of bread, some lemon tarts, a plate or two, and a knife and fork: with this appetising plunder she made a hasty retreat.

            Sansa had made it to the gallery, and was just shutting the backdoor behind her, when an accelerated din warned her that the ladies were about to depart from their chambers. She could not proceed to the schoolroom without passing some of their doors; so Sansa stood still at her end of the gallery, which, being windowless, was dark: quite dark now, for the sun was set and twilight gathering. Presently, the chambers gave up their fair tenants one after another: each came out merrily and airily, with dresses that lustrously gleamed through the dusk. They then descended the staircase almost as noiselessly as a bright mist rolls down a hill. Their collective appearance had left on Sansa an impression of highborn elegance, such as she had never seen before.

            She found Shireen peeping through the schoolroom door, which she held ajar. “What beautiful ladies!” she cried.

            “Yes,” agreed Sansa, who then let out a little sigh; she was suddenly aware of how drab she appeared in comparison. “Here is your dinner.”

            It was a good thing that she had secured this meal; or both her, Shireen, _and_ Miss Patchett, would have run a chance of getting no dinner at all: everyone downstairs was too much engaged to think of them. The dessert was not carried out till after nine; and at ten, footmen were still running to and fro with trays and coffee-cups. Sansa allowed Shireen to sit up much later than usual; for the little girl declared she could not possibly go to sleep while the doors kept opening and shutting below, and people bustled about. Besides, she added, a message might possibly come from her papa, wanting her downstairs. Sansa told her a few stories, and then for a change, took her out into the gallery.

            The hall lamp was now lit, and it amused Shireen to look over the banister and watch the servants passing backwards and forwards. When the evening was far advanced, a sound of piano music issued from the drawing room; Sansa and Shireen sat down on the top step of the stairs to listen. The solo over, a duet followed, then an interlude of conversational murmuring. Sansa listened long, but suddenly discovered that her ear was wholly intent on analysing the mingled sounds, and trying to determine amidst the confusion of voices which of them belonged to Mr Baratheon. When she at last caught his voice, she found a further task in framing the tones, rendered by distance inarticulate, into words.

            The clock struck eleven. She looked at Shireen, whose head leant against Sansa’s shoulder. Although low voices and tinkling laughter could still be heard, the back and forth of servants had momentarily ceased; the hallway below them was still, illuminated by soft candlelight. That is, until the drawing room door opened suddenly, revealing Mr Baratheon in all his evening finery.

            He did not see Sansa and his daughter—who were still sitting on the stairs; he had stepped to one side, his back against the wooden panelling, eyes closed and head tipped back slightly; as if seeking a moment’s repose before re-joining the party. Sansa watched him for a little while, taking in his tall frame and weary face; she felt an immediate wave of sympathy for him, as she knew he was not a naturally sociable man. She felt annoyance towards his cousin, Mr Kingsley Baratheon, for imposing on him so—if indeed that was the case. But, how else could such a gathering at Storms End have occurred? Mr Baratheon hardly even seemed fully at ease in _her_ company, thought Sansa, let alone these fine and fashionable people!

            Beside her, Shireen’s eyes had drooped shut, heavy with sleep. So Sansa took her charge up in her arms, intent on carrying her off to bed. Rising, the stairs gave only a faint creak, but it was enough to alert Mr Baratheon to their presence; his eyes instantly flew open, latching onto Sansa’s form.

            “Forgive me, sir: we had been enjoying the music. I shall take Shireen up to bed now—goodnight, sir,” she whispered hurriedly; Sansa adjusted the little girl in her arms; eyes downcast and fixed on her charge.

            “Miss Stark—I,” he murmured, apparently somewhat stunned by her presence. But then, quite suddenly he seemed to take possession of himself, and then Mr Baratheon was right in front of her; he stood on the step below hers; their eyes level with one another.

            “Allow me, Miss Stark,” he said in a low, hushed voice; his arms slowly reached out to take his dozing daughter from her arms.

            Sansa leant forward, assisting as best she could in Shireen’s transition from her arms to his: anxious not to jostle the little girl. Their arms touched and their heads were bent close; her hair brushed lightly against his cheek. She moved away from Mr Baratheon slowly, until she was stood up straight. The glow of candlelight seemed to render her red hair all the more lovely and striking. Her eyes lifted to meet his.

            “Thank you, sir,” she said softly.

            He did not reply and just kept looking at her.

            Sansa blushed under the intensity of his gaze; by now, she thought, I should surely be used to Mr Baratheon’s peculiar way of looking at me.

            Just then, Sansa realised she was blocking his assent, and blushing even more profusely, she swiftly stepped to one side. For a moment, Mr Baratheon simply blinked owlishly back at her. However, he was soon rid of his transitory stillness, as he slowly began to climb the stairs. Sansa followed noiselessly behind him; her eyes fixed upon his broad shoulders and Shireen’s little hand, which clutched at his collar.

            They entered Shireen’s chamber together; Mr Baratheon laying her gently upon her bed, smoothing her hair with one hand and then bending down to lightly kiss her forehead. He then retreated into a dark corner and turned his back; Sansa took this as an invitation to begin divesting Shireen of her muslin frock, and to dress her for bed; the little girl barely stirred as Sansa assisted her. In no time at all, she was soon tucked in snugly, with a kiss on her cheek and a “sweet dreams, sweetling.” Sansa moved quietly towards the door, turning back hesitantly to look at Mr Baratheon; he was now facing her and swiftly moved to join her. Hearing the soft close of the door behind her, Sansa turned to face him; Mr Baratheon was already looking at her.

            “I hate it down there,” he murmured, jadedly. “They’re all—it’s all just pretending.” He let out a dejected sigh, his all-pervading eyes still fixed on hers. “I wish—” he did not finish, or rather could not, and just shook his head; momentarily releasing her from the intensity of his gaze.

            Finally alone with him, Sansa had so many questions she wanted to ask; questions about the strange noises and laughter she heard; questions about his late wife; questions about his own peculiar behaviour. But, in that moment, they all seemed to desert her. Instead, they were replaced with an odd kind of ache in her chest as she continued to observe him.

            “What do you wish, sir?”

            They were standing quite close together now, though neither knew quite how that had come to be. Mr Baratheon looked at her intently; at length he spoke:

            “Miss Stark, I—”

            “—Stannis! Where the devil are you man?” came a booming voice from below, just outside the drawing room.

 _Stannis._ So that was his first name; Sansa tried to recall if she had ever heard it spoken before, but could not remember. _Stannis_ Baratheon.

            Stannis Baratheon in that moment seemed to be grinding his teeth in irritation; his gaze no longer on her, but towards the staircase.

            “Excuse me, Miss Stark,” he murmured, with a note of resignation in his voice, “I am required downstairs.”

            Sansa nodded numbly back at him; not sure if she was relieved that he would be leaving her, taking his intense looks and air of melancholy with him, or whether she was in fact saddened by his imminent departure.

            “Goodnight then, sir.”

            He looked back at her; his hand moved fractionally towards her own, as if he wished to take hold of it.

            “Show yourself, you damned fool!” jovially shouted the man below them.

            “You best do as he says, sir; or else he’ll wake up Shireen.”

            He nodded, averted his eyes from Sansa, and then took a decisive step away from her; “Yes—yes, you are quite right. Goodnight, Miss Stark.”

            Sansa did not linger in order to watch him go, instead turning on her heel, she swiftly made her way to her own bedroom. It was near one before the gentlemen and ladies sought their chambers.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm? If Stannis hates parties so much, why did he even go to the Penrose's in the first place?? 
> 
> Reviews very much appreciated :) x


	7. Confined in Corners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the reviews :) This gathering at Storms End is now in full swing!
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

The following day was as fine as its predecessor; it was devoted by the party, at Mr Kingsley Baratheon’s suggestion, to an excursion to some site in the neighbourhood. They set out early in the morning, some on horseback, the rest in carriages; Sansa witnessed both the departure and the return. Miss Tyrell, as before, was the only lady equestrian; and, as before, Mr Baratheon galloped at her side. Sansa pointed out this circumstance to Mrs Cressen, who was standing at the window with her:

            “You said it was not likely they should think of being married,” Sansa said, “but you see Mr Baratheon evidently prefers her to any of the other ladies.”

            “Yes; I daresay: no doubt he admires her.”

            “And she him,” Sansa added; “look how she leans her head towards him. I wish I could see her face; I have never had a glimpse of it yet.”

            “You will see her this evening,” answered Mrs Cressen. “The master has requested yours and Shireen’s company in the drawing room after dinner.”

            “Oh—he said that from mere politeness: I need not go, I am sure.”

            “Well—I observed to him that perhaps you would not like to appear before such a large group of strangers; and he replied, in his quick way, that it is his particular wish that you attend—though, if you really did not want to go, he would understand.”

            “I will go, then—if only to please him, and to keep watch over Shireen. Shall you be there Mrs Cressen?”

            “No; I begged off. But I will tell you how to manage so as to avoid the embarrassment of making a formal entrance, which is the most disagreeable part of the business. You must go into the drawing room while it is empty, before the ladies leave the dinner-table; choose your seat in any quiet nook you like; you need not stay long after the gentlemen come in, unless you please: just let Mr Baratheon see you are there and then slip away—nobody will notice you.”

            It was with some trepidation that Sansa’s perceived the hour approach when she was to repair with her charge to the drawing room. Shireen had been in a state of elation all day, after hearing she was to see her father in the evening; and it was not till Miss Patchett commenced the operation of dressing her that she sobered down. Then the importance of the process steadied her; and by the time she had her hair arranged, her cream satin frock put on, and her long sash tied, she looked as grave as any judge—or as grave as her father, perhaps, mused Sansa. No need to warn her not to disarrange her attire: when she was dressed, she sat demurely down in her little chair, taking care previously to lift up the satin skirt for fear she should crease it, and assured Sansa she would not stir thence till Sansa was ready. This she quickly was: her best dress was soon put on; her red hair was smoothed: her sole ornament, the swallow bar brooch, swiftly adorned. They descended.

            Fortunately, there was another entrance to the drawing room than that through the saloon where they were all seated at dinner. They found the room vacant; a large fire burning silently on the marble hearth, and wax candles shining in bright solitude, amid the exquisite flowers with which the tables were adorned. The crimson curtain hung before the arch: slight as was the separation this drapery formed from the party in the adjoining saloon, they spoke in so low a key that nothing of their conversation could be distinguished beyond a soothing murmur.

            Shireen, who appeared to be still under the influence of a most solemnising impression, sat down, without a word, on the footstool Sansa pointed out to her. Sansa retired to a window-seat, and, taking a book from a table near, endeavoured to read. Shireen brought her stool to Sansa’s feet; after a little while she touched her governess’s knee.

            “What is it Shireen?”

            The soft sound of people rising had now become audible; the curtain was swept back from the arch; through it appeared the dinning room, with its lit lustre pouring down light on the silver and glass of a magnificent dessert-service covering a long table; a band of ladies stood in the opening; they entered, and the curtain fell behind them.

            There were but nine, yet somehow as they flocked in, they gave the impression of a much larger number. Sansa rose and curtseyed to them: one or two bent their heads in return; the others only stared at her. They dispersed about the room, reminding Sansa, by the lightness and buoyancy of their movements, of a flock of colourful and plumy birds. Some of them threw themselves in half-reclining positions on the sofas and ottomans; some bent over the tables and examined the flowers and books; the rest gathered in a group round the fire: all talked in a low but clear tone which seemed habitual to them.

            There was Mrs Kingsley Baratheon, who was a very handsome woman, and was well preserved still. Though, there was an expression of almost insupportable haughtiness in her bearing and countenance. A crimson silk gown, and a shawl of some gold-wrought Indian fabric invested her with a truly imperial grandeur. Her daughter, Myrcella, was rather naïve, and child-like in face and manner, but altogether very pretty: her mother’s golden hair, alongside a pale yellow muslin dress and ivory sash became her well.

            There was Mrs Penrose who was less showy, but perhaps more lady-like compared to Mrs Kingsley Baratheon. She wore a russet coloured satin dress, a scarf of rich foreign lace, and pearls; two of her daughters were with her. Laena, the eldest of the two, had a slight figure, a pale, gentle face, and very fair hair. The younger daughter, Jocelyn, looked very much like her sister, but taller and more elegant in figure, and not flaxen but dark haired: both sisters were as fair as lilies, dressed in pink and white.

            Miss Brienne Tarth was the tallest of the party, though also the homeliest; she had a broad, freckled face and a wide mouth. However, if one was searching for beauty in her features, one needed to look no further than her large and captivating blue eyes. She appeared ill at ease in her voluminous satin dress, but its changeful sheen of cobalt and azure complimented her eyes pleasantly.

            By contrast, the Mrs Tyrell, Sir Mace’s mother, was very small indeed; somewhere in her sixties, her shape was still fine, though she walked with a cane. Most people would have termed her a splendid woman for her age: and so she was, no doubt, physically speaking, and intelligent too; her tongue was sharp and it was soon clear to Sansa, from hearing her converse with the others, that the old lady possessed a wicked wit. She was dressed in widow’s black, but her white hair shone bright against the vivid peacock plumage adorning it.

            Her daughter-in-law, Lady Tyrell, was a tall woman, though not as tall as Miss Tarth, with a dignified bearing and handsome features. She was statuesque in teal green silk; but her daughter, Margaery, was radiant in emerald. As far as her person went, Margaery answered point for point, Mrs Cressen’s description. Her face was like her mother’s: the same high features, the same pride. Yet, her manner seemed more in line with her grandmother’s; though with youthful softness undercutting the old Mrs Tyrell’s sharpness: Miss Tyrell laughed continually and smiled often, her lip curling into the occasional smirk. In Sansa’s eyes there seemed much to admire about her. However, did she think that Miss Tyrell was the type of young lady Mr Baratheon would admire? Sansa could not tell—she did not know his taste in female beauty.

            While Sansa had been surreptitiously observing Miss Tyrell, the looming figure of Miss Tarth had approached her. Sansa was quite startled; quite soon after her entrance into the room, Miss Tarth had taken a seat and remained fixed like a statue in its niche.

            “So you are the governess?”

            “Yes; I am Miss Stark.”

            “Brienne Tarth.” She somewhat awkwardly held out her hand for Sansa to take; Sansa swiftly rose from her seat and did so.

            “How are you liking Storms End, Miss Stark?”

            Sansa smiled timidly at the lady before her; “I like it very well—Mr Baratheon is very—he is very kind.”

            Miss Tarth grinned, revealing prominent teeth. “Have you ever seen a bulldog? Set a bulldog on his hind-legs, and dress him up in a coat and breeches, and you have Stannis Baratheon.”

            “No,” said Sansa, laughing, “I deny that. Mr Baratheon is plain enough, but he is not like a bulldog, with its short broad nose and snarling upper lip!”

            Miss Tarth laughed in return: “No! not in look, I grant you. But let Stannis Baratheon get hold of a notion, and he’ll stick to it like a bulldog. He’s as dour as a door-nail; an obstinate man, every inch of him—I am surprised his cousin managed to beat him into submission with this silly party business.”

            “From what I know of him,” Sansa replied somewhat shyly, “it does seem slightly odd.”

            “Yes it does—but here we are!” Miss Tarth’s good humour faltered slightly, and a self-consciousness overcame her: “You must forgive, Miss Stark; I have sought you out because, like myself, you seemed destined for an evening ensconced in a dreary corner.”

            Sansa smiled unreservedly back at her; “There is nothing to forgive, Miss Tarth.” Her new companion returned her smile.

            Just then, Shireen tugged on Sansa’s skirts; Sansa looked down, humour dancing in her eyes. “Might I introduce you to the lady of Storms End?”

            Miss Tarth glanced down abruptly; the little girl, and she was exceedingly little compared to Miss Tarth, had quite escaped her notice. “Oh! Why yes, it would be my utmost pleasure—nay, an honour, Miss Stark!” she replied, trying to conceal a chuckle.

            With mock solemnity, Sansa continued; “May I present the venerable, the honourable, the highly esteemed, Miss Shireen Baratheon.” Her charge giggled heartily as she extended her small hand for Miss Tarth to take.

            Miss Tarth took it, bowing over it, and in a grave yet humour-tinged voice, murmured: “My _lady_.” The trio then proceeded to chat away merrily in their quiet corner.

            At last the coffee was brought in, and the gentlemen were summoned. Sansa sat with Shireen and Miss Tarth, in the shade—or in what little shade there was in that brilliantly lit room; the window curtain half hid them. The collective appearance of the gentlemen, like that of the ladies, was very imposing: they were all costumed in black; most of them were tall, some young. Robin Penrose was fair-haired and plain but kindly looking; his father, Mr Penrose, the magistrate of the district, was gentleman-like; and Colonel Tarth was a fine soldierly man, his hair quite white, though his eyebrows and whiskers were still dark.

            Mr Kingsley Baratheon and his son, Joffrey, could not have looked more dissimilar: Robert was black of hair, like his cousin, and of a similar height as well; but he was also large and stout, with a face reddened from drink and a thick, fierce looking beard. His son, though tall, had the look of his mother; his hair was blonde, and his countenance regal, with vicious green eyes and pouty lips.

            Sir Mace Tyrell, like Mr Baratheon’s cousin, did not possess a trim physique, unlike his two sons. Like their sister, the Tyrell brothers were dark haired and very handsome. The elder, Willas, had kind eyes and walked with a slight limp; he was the more studious looking of the two; his brother, Garlan, was slightly taller and more broadly built.

            Mr Bartheon was the last to enter the drawing room. Without looking at Sansa, he took a seat at the other side of the room. Sansa cast him a furtive glance; he was talking, at that moment, to Mrs Tyrell and her son, Sir Mace. She wondered to see them receive with calm that look which seemed to her so penetrating. No sooner did she see that his attention was riveted on them, and that she might gaze without being observed, than her eyes were drawn involuntarily to his face: Sansa could not keep their lids under control: they would rise, and the irises would fix on him. There was a fine, grand quietness to his voice and ways, which set him apart from the rest of the gentlemen in the room. Though he appeared not to be in the habit of talking to ladies; and what he did say, that which Sansa could hear, was a little formal.

            Coffee was handed out. The ladies, since the gentlemen entered, had become lively as larks; conversation grew brisk and merry. Colonel Tarth and Mr Penrose argued on politics; Mr Kingsley Baratheon stood by them, coffee-cup in hand, occasionally putting in a word. Mrs Penrose, Lady Tyrell and Mrs Kingsley Baratheon were also engaged in conversation, grouped together next to a vase of exotic blooms. Little Shireen had, with Sansa’s encouragement, taken Miss Tarth by the hand and was now showing her engravings in a splendid volume; they had taken possession of an ottoman, and sat together just a little distance away from Sansa. Mr Robin Penrose had taken a seat beside Myrcella Kingsley Baratheon; she smiled at him now and then, but said little. Willas Tyrell leant with folded arms on the chair-back of the little and lively Laena Penrose; she glanced up at him, and chattered like a wren: she seemed to like him better than Garlan Tyrell, who was sat beside her, conversing with her younger sister, Jocelyn. Margaery Tyrell had paired with Joffrey Kingsley Baratheon; they stood alone at a table, with Miss Tyrell bending gracefully over a large book of horticultural illustrations.

            Mr Baratheon, had at this point quit Sir Mace and Mrs Tyrell. He now stood by the hearth, quite alone until his cousin swiftly approached him. Mr Kingsley Baratheon took him a little to one side, and looking towards Sansa’s shady corner inquired, loud enough for Sansa to hear:

            “Who is that enchanting creature?”

            Sansa involuntarily shrank further into the shade.

            “To whom do you refer to, Robert?” he replied indifferently, looking into the flaming grate.

            Mr Kingsley Baratheon’s wife then spoke up, and she moved to join them on the opposite side of the mantelpiece:

            “She is your daughter’s governess, I suppose—or nursemaid, perhaps. Is she still here? Oh, there she is—still behind the window-curtain.”

            Still, Mr Baratheon did not turn his eyes to Sansa; but though he did not look at her, he knew what she was doing—or not doing—better than he knew the movements of anyone else in the room.

            “Miss Stark is Shireen’s governess; yes.”

            His cousin clapped him on the back; “I say, Stannis! Pretty little thing isn’t she? Never had governesses like her in my day!”

            His cousin’s wife bristled; “Mr Baratheon, I thought you were not fond of children? Surely, you should have sent her to school.”

            The master of Storms Ends gave her a hard stare in return. “Whether I am, on the whole, fond of children or not, is inconsequential: she is my daughter, madam. I would have her here; not as some costly, substandard school where they might mistake Lisbon for London on a globe.”

            “I should think it quite as expensive—more so,” continued Mrs Kingsley Baratheon, unperturbed, “for you have them both to keep in addition.”

            “I am satisfied with the arrangement, as is my daughter; that is all the consideration I need make on the matter.”

            The lady let out a harsh sounding laugh; “No—you men never do consider economy and common sense. My children have had, I should think, a dozen governesses, at least; half of them detestable and the rest ridiculous, and all degenerates—were they not, Joffrey, my love?”

            “I have suffered a martyrdom from their incompetency and caprice,” replied her son, haughtily. “I thank Heaven I was duly sent to Eton—how I did love to torment them though!”

            Margaery Tyrell leant over to the young gentleman, still at her side, and whispered something in his ear; Sansa supposed from the answer elicited, it was a reminder that one of the aforementioned race was present.

            “Ha!” he replied, and then sneered in Sansa’s direction, “Yes, I noticed her; I am a judge of physiognomy, and in hers I see all the faults of her class.”

            Sansa flushed with mortification; she wished dearly that she could quit the room that very instant. She had to content herself with keeping her eyes downcast, staring at her hands.

            “And what are they, boy?” Mr Baratheon then said, quite heatedly.

            The young man blanched; “I will tell you in your private ear, cousin.”

            “But our curiosity will be past its appetite; it craves food now,” interjected Mrs Tyrell, a challenge quite evident in her tone.

            “Lets have no more said on the matter,” Miss Tyrell then said, casting an apologetic smile in Sansa’s direction, though she did not see it. “Perhaps it is time for some music?”

            Mr Kingsley Baratheon clapped his meaty hands together in enthusiasm: “Capital idea, Miss Tyrell! Yes, music! Play us some music, my dear!”

            Miss Tyrell promptly made her way to the piano, and sat down with proud grace, spreading out her emerald skirts in queenly amplitude. She commenced a brilliant nocturne, talking all the while. She appeared to be on her high horse tonight; both her words and her air seemed intended to excite not only the admiration, but also the amazement of her auditors.

            “Oh, I am sick of the young men of the present day!” she exclaimed brightly, tinkling away at the instrument. “Poor, puny things not fit to stir a step beyond papa’s park-gates: nor to go even so far without mama’s permission and guardianship!” She glanced at Sansa, catching her eye, and smirked impishly then directed her gaze momentarily towards the young Mr Kingsley Baratheon. “Creatures so absorbed in care about their pretty faces and their lily white hands; as if a man had anything to do with beauty! As if loveliness were not the special prerogative of women!” she laughed gaily, and then cast a sly smile in Mr Baratheon's direction; “A man should pay no heed to his looks,” she continued, “he should posses only strength and valour; gentlemen or highwaymen, his beauty lies in his _power_.”

            “So a pirate would do for you?” retorted her brother, Willas Tyrell.

            His sister’s eyes glimmered with amusement, and she lifted her pale shoulders in a delicate shrug. Soon the conversation around Miss Tyrell seemed to pick up again, with Robin Penrose coming over to observe her playing more closely; yet she seemed to pay him no mind, as she kept her laughing eyes pinned on the master of the house.

            Now is my time to slip away, thought Sansa; she glanced at Shireen, who was still happily chatting away to Miss Tarth upon their shared ottoman. So Sansa proceeded to quit her sheltered corner and made her exit by the side-door, which was fortunately near. The narrow passage led into the hall: in crossing it, Sansa perceived her shoe was loose; she stopped to tie it, kneeling down for that purpose at the foot of the staircase. Just then, she heard the dinning room door open; a gentleman came; rising hastily, Sansa stood face to face with him: it was Mr Baratheon.

            “Why did you leave the room? Why did you not come and speak to me?” he asked.

            “I did not wish to disturb you, sir; you seemed engaged.”

            “I see—what have you been doing during my absence?”

            “Teaching Shireen.”

            He tilted his head slightly, observing her closely. “And getting a good deal paler than you were—as I saw at first sight. What is the matter?”

            “Nothing at all, sir,” Sansa murmured in reply.

            “Are you ill?” he persisted, concern etched into his stern features.

            “No, sir,” she said, shaking her head gently and worrying her lip.

            Mr Baratheon stared at her for a moment, and then spoke: “Return to the drawing room: you are deserting too early.”

            “I am tired, sir.”

            Again, he stared at her for a minute until his face softened; his eyes grew gentle and searching: “You shouldn’t pay them any mind, Miss Stark—they’re conceited fools, the pair of them,” he said softly.

            “I don’t know what you mean, sir” she replied, in equally hushed tones.

            “I think that you do—And if I had time, and was not in mortal dread of some prating prig of a servant passing, I would have you explain it all to me more fully. But tonight I will excuse you; but understand that so long as my visitors stay, it is my wish that you appear in the drawing room every evening; my wish, but not my command. Now go, and send Miss Patchett for Shireen. Goodnight, Miss—” He stopped, observing Mrs Cressen by one of the hallway doors; “Yes, what is it?”

            “There is a gentleman newly arrived, sir; a Mr Loras Tyrell. I’ve had his things sent up and told him to join the others in the drawing room.”

            Mr Baratheon stood frozen for a moment and then spoke: “Good—good. I must speak with him.” He breathed out heavily and cast his gaze about the dimly lit hallway; Mrs Cressen curtseyed and promptly vanished through the door from which she came.

            “Sansa,” he then murmured, “if I were to go back to those people in there, and they looked at me coldly and sneered, then left me one by one—what would you do, would you go with them?” He did not look at her.

            “No, sir; I’d stay with you.”

            His eyes met hers, and he sighed: “Go, Miss Stark.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They are always meeting in deserted hallways, these two! Hmm, why does Stannis need to talk to Loras? And has Margaery seriously got her eye on Stannis, or is she just playing around? Questions, questions...
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter! Reviews are very much appreciated :) x
> 
> P.S. I should mention that I'm going on holiday on sunday for 2 weeks - so not sure if I'll be able to update much, if at all, during that time :( I'm not sure what the wifi situation is like, plus I'll probably be busy eating croissants or something, haha. But if you guys are lucky, and the old and the new gods align, you might end up with another chapter (or two, but that might be pushing it). 
> 
> Love Cappy x


	8. A Game of Charades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! I hope you guys missed me! Unfortunately I had zero wifi at the place I was staying in France so wasn't able to post any updates, plus I was a bit too busy to write any. But here I am and here we are :) 
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Merry days were these at Storms End, and busy days too. All gloomy associations were forgotten: there was life everywhere, movement all day long. Sansa could not now traverse the gallery, once so hushed, nor enter the front chambers, once so tenantless, without encountering a smart lady’s maid or a dandy valet. The kitchen, the butler’s pantry, the servant’s hall, the entrance hall, were all equally alive; and the saloons were only left void and still, when the blue sky and serene sunshine of the genial spring weather called their occupants out into the grounds. Even when that weather was broken, and continuous rain set in for some days, no damp seemed cast over the guests of Storms End: indoor amusements only became more lively and varied, in consequence of the stop put to outdoor gaiety.

            Sansa wondered what they were going to do the first evening a change of entertainment was proposed: Mr Kingsley Baratheon spoke of “playing charades,” but in her ignorance Sansa did not understand the term. The servants were called in, the dining room tables taken away, the lights otherwise disposed, the chairs placed in a semicircle opposite the arch. While Mr Baratheon—with more than a hint of exasperation—and the other gentlemen directed these alterations, the ladies were running up and down the stairs ringing for their maids. Mrs Cressen was summoned to give information respecting the resources of the house in shawls, dresses, and draperies of any kind; certain wardrobes of the third story were ransacked, and their contents, in the shape of brocaded and hooped petticoats, satin squares, lace lappets, and such, were brought down in armfuls by the lady’s maids; then a selection was made, and such things as were chosen were carried to the boudoir within the drawing-room.

            Meanwhile, Miss Tyrell had summoned some of the ladies and gentlemen around her, and was selecting certain of their number to be of her party. “Mr Baratheon is mine, of course,” she said airily. Mr Baratheon looked at Sansa: she happened to be near him, as she had been fastening the clasp of Miss Tyrell’s bracelet, which had come loose.

            “Will you play?” he asked, a hint of desperation in his dark eyes. His cousin jovially concurred:

            “Yes! Do play Miss Stark—a fine addition to my party you shall be!”

            Before Sansa could so much as blush and shake her head, Mrs Kingsley Baratheon instantly negated the notion.

            “No,” she heard her say: “she looks too stupid for any game of the sort.”

            “Nonsense!” injected Miss Tyrell. “Miss Stark, you shall be my little friend and come play with my party.” Sansa smiled shyly, looking first at the master of the house, and then at Miss Tyrell:

            “If it pleases you, Miss.”

            “Indeed it will,” replied the lady.

            Miss Tyrell’s party now withdrew behind the curtain: the other party, which was headed by Mr Kingsley Baratheon, sat down on the crescent of chairs. Before long, a bell tinkled, and the curtain drew up. Within the arch, the elegant figure of Mr Loras Tyrell, whom Miss Tyrell had likewise chosen, was seen enveloped in a white sheet: before him, on a table, lay open a large book; and at his side stood Laena Penrose, draped in Mr Baratheon’s cloak, and holding a book in her hand. Somebody, unseen, rang the bell merrily; then Shireen (who had insisted on being one of her father’s party) bounded forward, scattering round her the contents of a basket of flowers she carried on her arm. Then appeared the beautiful figure of Miss Sansa Stark, clad in white, a long veil on her head, and a wreath of roses round her brow: by her side stiffly walked Mr Baratheon, and together they drew near the table. They knelt, while Miss Tyrell and Myrcella Kingsley Baratheon, dressed also in white, took up their stations behind them. A ceremony followed, in dumb show, in which it was easy to recognise the pantomime of marriage. At its termination, Mr Kingsley Baratheon and his party consulted in whispers for two minutes, then the gentleman called out:

            “Bride!” Miss Tyrell nodded, and the curtain fell.

            A considerable interval elapsed before it again rose. Its second rising displayed a more elaborately prepared scene than the last. Vases of exotics had been spread out, congregating around a pile of mostly blue toned scarfs and satin squares, arranged to look like a pool of water. At the centre of this pool sat Miss Tyrell, Sansa’s wedding wreath adorning her head; her surrounding attendants were the Misses Penrose, Miss Kingsley Baratheon, Miss Tarth, and Sansa herself. Off to the side of this congregation stood a rather uncomfortable looking Mr Baratheon, a crimson scarf tied sash-like around his waist, with a poker from one of the fireplaces tied to it as if to resemble a sword.

            The divining party again laid their heads together: apparently they could not agree about the word or syllable this scene illustrated, until old Mrs Tyrell sighed tiredly and gave the correct answer: it was Florian and Jonquil. A sufficient interval having elapsed for the performers to resume their ordinary costume, they re-entered the dining room; Sansa trailing behind them, still flushed with a heady mixture of embarrassment and exhilaration. Mr Baratheon led in Miss Tyrell; she was complimenting him on his acting.

            “Don’t flatter me, Miss Tyrell: we both know no fortune of mine is to be made on the London stage.” She laughed gaily in response, and leaning in conspiringly, whispered to him:

            “Oh, come, come, Mr B—I dare say, you seemed quite convincing as the bridegroom to your pretty little governess’s bride.”

            Mr Baratheon tensed and cast her an incredulous look.

            “Yes,” she continued, “I think I cast those parts quite well! Or do you not think so, Mr Baratheon?”

            “I think you are a very impertinent young lady, Miss Tyrell,” he said through clenched teeth.

            “Lord! As if I haven’t heard that one before! But you must forgive me, Mr B—I am only teasing you.”

            “Yes, well,” murmured Mr Baratheon, before reaching his cousin. “Now, Robert,” he continued, “it is your turn to make a fool of yourself.” And as the other party withdrew, Mr Baratheon and his party took the vacated seats. Miss Tyrell placed herself at Mr Baratheon’s right hand; the other diviners filled the chairs on either side of them; Sansa returned quietly to her usual seat, nearer the back of the room. She did not watch the actors; it was the spectators which absorbed her attention. What charade Mr Kingsley Baratheon and his party played, what word they chose, how they acquitted themselves, Sansa would not have been able to recall. Instead, she saw Miss Tyrell turn to Mr Baratheon, and Mr Baratheon to her; she saw the lady incline her head towards him, till her glossy curls almost touched his shoulder and waved against his cheek; Sansa heard their mutual whisperings, though could not make out the words; she saw their interchanged glances.

            Indeed, Sansa sincerely believed that Mr Baratheon was going to marry Miss Tyrell; a myriad of qualities seemed to recommend her, as well as her family, her rank and her connexions. Yet, Sansa perceived that he had not yet given her his love; but surely, it was only a matter of time before Miss Tyrell was victorious and Mr Baratheon yielded and sincerely laid his heart at her feet? For by all accounts, she was a good and noble woman, endowed with force, fervour, kindness and sense. Undoubtedly, Sansa admired Miss Tyrell and acknowledged her excellence, yet failed to see that _she could not charm him_.

            As matters really stood, to truly watch Miss Tyrell’s efforts at fascinating Mr Baratheon was to witness their repeated failure—to see each shaft launched, miss the mark. Arrows continually glanced off Mr Baratheon’s chest and fell harmless at his feet, persistently failing to penetrate his proud heart, to call love into his stern eyes, to soften his sardonic face. In truth, the gentleman was well aware that her flirtations were merely a game and that the lady did not truly like him, nor did she bear him any genuine affection. If she did, she need not coin her smiles so lavishly; flash her glances so unremittingly; manufacture airs so elaborate, graces so innumerable. Indeed, Mr Baratheon would have much preferred her to merely sit quietly at his side, say little and look less.

            In the meantime, while Sansa thought only of her master and his future bride—saw only them, heard only their murmured discourse, and considered, only their movements fascinating her—the rest of the party were occupied with their own separate interests and pleasures. Lady Tyrell, Mrs Kingsley Baratheon and Mrs Penrose continued to consort in solemn conferences; where they nodded their three plumed heads at each other, and held their six hands in confronting gestures of surprise, or mystery, or horror, according to the theme on which their gossip ran, like a trio of magnified puppets. Good-natured Miss Tarth talked with the witty, sharp-tongued Mrs Tyrell, and her eldest grandson, Willas; the three often bestowed a friendly word or smile on Sansa. Sir Mace Tyrell, Colonel Tarth, Mr Kingsley Baratheon, Mr Penrose, and his son Robin, discussed politics or county affairs, or law business. Young Mr Kingsley Baratheon flirted with Jocelyn Penrose, while casting not quite surreptitious glances towards Miss Tyrell; Laena Penrose played to and with one of the remaining Mr Tyrells; and Myrcella Kingsley Baratheon listened languidly to the gallant speeches of the other. Sometimes all, as with one consent, suspended their by-play to observe and listen to the principal actors; for, after all, Miss Tyrell, and—because closely connected with her—Mr Baratheon, were the life and soul of the party.

            The following day, the master of Storms End was summoned to Felwood on business, and was not likely to return till late. The afternoon was wet but some of the gentlemen, including the two eldest Tyrell brothers, went to the stables: the remaining gentlemen, together with the ladies, were playing billiards in the billiard-room. Mrs Tyrell and her granddaughter sought solace in a quiet game of cards. Joffrey Kingsley Baratheon, after having repelled, by supercilious taciturnity, some efforts of Jocelyn Penrose to draw him into conversation, had fetched a novel from the library and then promptly flung himself in haughty listlessness on a sofa. The room and the house were silent: only now and then the merriment of the billiard players was heard.

            Yet soon the gentlemen at the stables had to retreat into the house as thunder began to rumble in the distance, and large raindrops started to clatter through the leaves. The storm broke out quite suddenly, rattling over the old house in full fury; the thunder and lightening were frequent, with violent winds, and rain that came plunging through the trees, as if every drop were a made of lead. From Sansa’s window seat in the schoolroom she watched the stormy sky enraptured. It was grand in her eyes, to see how the wind awoke, and bent the trees, and drove the rain before it like a cloud of smoke; and to hear the solemn thunder, and see the lightening; and while thinking with awe of the tremendous powers by which our little lives are encompassed.

            That night Sansa had forgotten to draw her curtain, which she usually did. The consequence was, that when the moon, which was full and bright (for the night was fine and clear, thanks to the earlier storm), came to that space in the sky opposite her window, and looked in at Sansa through the unveiled panes, its glorious gaze roused her. Awakening in the dead of night, Sansa opened her eyes on the sphere—silver-white and crystal-clear. It was beautiful, but too solemn: Sansa half rose, and stretched her arm to draw the curtain.

            A noise.

            The night—its silence—its rest was interrupted by a touch against her door, the very same noise from so many nights past. Sansa’s pulse stopped: her heart stood still; her stretched arm was paralyzed. She heard a vague murmur and a pained moan, then a creaking of floorboards, as if whoever was at her door was now walking away. Sansa, her curiosity somehow overriding her fear, quickly put on her dressing gown and shoes, though horror shook all her limbs. She departed from her chamber and looked down the moonlit gallery.

            And she saw it, a figure of a woman.

            She was a few yards away from Sansa, proceeding down the gallery with lethargic slowness; pausing here and there to peer at the closed doors on either side of her, before moving on again. She wore a gown of pale silvery grey that seemed strangely gauze-like; a long white veil obscured her hair. Sansa felt a chill creep up her spine, propelling her forward so that she might follow the eerie figure at a distance; she tiptoed carefully, with shaking hands but a determined heart. Sansa soon became aware that they were heading in the direction of Mr Baratheon’s chamber and she faltered slightly causing her to frantically press herself against the wooden panelling of a dark alcove; from the corner of her eye she saw the figure pause, and turn. Sansa’s heartbeat thundered in her ears so loudly that she was sure that the spectre must have heard it; but the Grey Lady only paused momentarily before continuing onwards, towards the master’s chambers.

            Sansa was frozen with terror, her hands pressed flat against the wall behind her; she dared not move and now wondered at what had possessed to her to leave her chambers? But then Sansa Stark had always been a curious girl.

            She did not move; she hardly breathed. So she was able to hear quite clearly what happened next: a door opened.

            “What are you doing here? What are you doing here!” came Mr Baratheon’s startled low tones.

            Sansa closed her eyes as the spectre let out a deep, demoniac laugh in response; the hairs on the back of her neck and arms began to stand up.

            “What do you want from me—why are you doing this? By God, you torment me so!” His voice was pained, and came out almost strangled as if choked with an emotion unrecognisable to Sansa’s petrified ears.

            The Grey Lady laughed again.

            “That’s all you can do is it? Laugh at me?” retorted Mr Baratheon defiantly. “I’ve done everything—everything I can to help you and still you punish me.” There was a lapse in silence.

            “Go! Away with you phantom—haunt me no more!” At the thought of the Grey Lady passing by her hiding place, Sansa suddenly sprang into action and made a mad dash down the gallery back to her chamber; her slippers were thin: she moved across the matted floor as softly as a cat.

            She was panting by the time she managed to bolt her door and collapse onto her bed. What had she seen? Who was the Grey Lady and why did she seek out Mr Baratheon? Dear God, could she be the ghost of the late Mrs Baratheon—her soul troubled due to the mysterious and still undisclosed, to Sansa at least, circumstances of her death?

            Suddenly a noise once more broke through the night’s stillness; it was a pained, sharp cry that ran from end to end of the house. It came out of the third story, for it passed overhead, in the room just above Sansa’s ceiling. A half smothered voice shouted:

            “Oh God! It hurts, it hurts—God damn me!”

            “Will no one come?” it cried. “Stannis! Stannis! For God’s sake, come!” The voice then ceased and was replaced with numerous lung-racking coughs. A chamber-door opened: someone ran, or rushed, along the gallery. Something made of glass shattered and then there was silence.

            Sansa crept out of her room once more; the sleepers had all stirred: terrified murmurs sounded in every room; door after door opened; one looked out and another looked out. Gentlemen and ladies alike had quitted their beds; and the gallery filled; and “Oh! what is it?”—“Who is hurt?”—“What has happened?”—“Fetch a light!”—“Is it fire?”—“Are there robbers?”—“Where shall we run?” was demanded confusedly from all sides. But for the moonlight they would have been in complete darkness. They ran to and fro; they crowded together: some sobbed, some stumbled: the confusion was inextricable.

            “Where the devil is Baratheon?” cried Colonel Tarth. “I cannot find him in his chamber.”

            “I am here!” was shouted in return. “Be composed, all of you: I am coming.”

            And the door at the end of the gallery opened, and Mr Baratheon advanced with a candle: he had just descended from the upper story. One of the ladies ran to him directly; she seized his arm: it was Miss Tyrell.

            “What awful event has taken place?” she said. “Speak! Let us know the worst at once!”

            “Please refrain from grabbing at me so,” he replied: for the Misses Penrose were clinging about him now.

            “All is well—all is well!” he cried. “Ladies, keep off!” His dark eyes darted with sparks; calming himself with an effort, he added:

            “A servant has had a nightmare; that is all. She’s an excitable, nervous person: she construed her dream into an apparition, or something of that sort, no doubt; and has taken a fit with fright. Now, then, I must see you all back into your rooms; for, till the house is settled, she cannot be looked after.”

            And so, with a degree of coaxing and commanding, he contrived to get them all once more enclosed in their separate chambers. Sansa did not wait to be ordered back to hers, but retreated unnoticed: as unnoticed as she had left it. Not, however, to go to bed: on the contrary, she began to dress herself carefully. The sounds she had heard after the cry, and the words that had been uttered, not to mention the goings on she had witnessed earlier, had probably only been heard and seen by her: they assured Sansa that it was not a dream which had struck terror into her heart, and later through the house; and that the explanation Mr Baratheon had given was merely an invention framed to pacify his guests. Sansa dressed, then, to be ready for emergencies. When dressed, she sat a long time by the window, looking out over the silent grounds and silvered fields, and waiting for she knew not what. It seemed to her that some event must follow that strange cry.

            No: stillness returned: each murmur and movement ceased gradually, and in about an hour Storms End was again as hushed as a desert. The moon was about to be obscured by a cloud; not liking to sit in the cold and darkness, Sansa thought she would lie down on her bed, dressed as she was. She left the window, and moved with little noise across the carpet; as she stooped to take off her shoes, a cautious hand tapped low at the door.

            “Yes?”

            “Are you up?” asked the voice of Mr Baratheon.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And dressed?”

            “Yes.”

            “Come out, then, quietly.”

            Sansa obeyed. Mr Baratheon stood in the gallery, holding a light.

            “I need you,” he said: “come this way: take your time, and make no noise.”

            He glided up the gallery and up the stairs, and stopped in the dark, low corridor of the fateful third story: Sansa followed and stood at his side.

            “Have you a sponge in your room?” he asked in a whisper.

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Have you any smelling salts?”

            “Yes.”

            “Go back and fetch both.”

            She returned, sought the sponge on the washstand, the salts in her drawer, and once more retraced her steps. He still waited; he held a key in his hand: approaching one of the small, black doors, he put it in the lock; he paused and addressed Sansa again.

            “You don’t turn sick at the sight of blood?”

            “I think I shall not: though I have never been tried.”

            “Give me your hand,” he said; “it will not do to risk a fainting fit.”

            Sansa put her fingers into his. “Warm and steady,” he concluded: then he turned the key and opened the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What in the world is going on at Storms End??! Bit of a cliffhanger ;)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	9. The Concealed Gentleman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely reviews - a very nice welcome back :) Will this chapter be a resolution to that cliffhanger, or will it just throw up more questions? Hmmm... 
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Sansa saw a room she remembered having seen before; the day Mrs Cressen showed her over the house: in it hung a large tapestry; but the tapestry was now looped up in one part, and there was a door apparent, which had previously been concealed. This door was open; a light shone out of the room within. Mr Baratheon, putting down his candle, said to her, “wait a minute,” and he went forward to the inner apartment.

            “Oh!” cried a shrill, panicked voice, “Oh, Mr Baratheon, sir! Thank God you are come again! He is so much worse, sir! I don’t know what to do—”

            “Compose yourself, Brella; you are no help to anyone in this state. Consider yourself discharged for the night: go, be off with you; but make sure to return to your post come morning,” returned the master’s sternly; “And remember,” he added, “speak of this to no one.”

            “Yes, sir; much obliged, sir.” Sansa heard a rustle of skirts, then a maidservant dashed past her, only slowing her pace as she opened the outer door and tiptoed out.

            “Come, Miss Stark,” Mr Baratheon said at length; and she walked gingerly in to join him at the side of a large bed, which with its drawn curtains of deep red damask concealed a considerable portion of this inner chamber. An easy-chair was near the top of the bed: a head leant back; his eyes were closed. Mr Baratheon held a candle over him; Sansa recognised in his pale, gaunt, and seemingly lifeless face a resemblance to the master of the house—a brother or cousin, perhaps? She saw too that his bed linen near his chest and neck were splattered with blood.

            “Hold the candle,” said Mr Baratheon, and Sansa took it; he fetched a basin of water from the washstand: “Hold that,” he said. She obeyed. He took the sponge, dipped it in and moistened the corpse-like face: he asked for Sansa’s smelling-bottle, and applied it to the nostrils. The young man shortly unclosed his eyes; he groaned. Mr Baratheon leant over and put a hand to his relation’s forehead, and then straightened abruptly, turning to Sansa.

            “He is hot with fever: I must fetch a doctor. Miss Stark—” he continued.

            “Sir?”

            “I shall have to leave you in this room with this gentleman, for an hour, or perhaps two hours; you must sponge his forehead to keep the fever at bay: if he feels faint, you should put the glass of water on that stand to his lips, and your salts to his nose. If he—if he starts coughing up blood press this linen to his mouth, but do your best to keep as much distance between you as possible. You will not speak to him on any pretext—and,” he turned back to the man in the bed, “you will most definitely not speak to her.”

            The poor man groaned: he looked as if he dared not move: fear, either of death or of something else, appeared almost to paralyze him. Mr Baratheon put the now warm, damp sponge into Sansa’s hand, and she proceeded to dip it in the cool water and use it as he had done. He watched her for a second, then saying, “Remember: do not speak,” he left the room. Sansa experienced a strange feeling as the key grated in the lock, and the sound of his retreating step ceased to be heard.

            Here she was in the third story, fastened into one of its mystic cells; night around her; a pale and bloody spectacle under her eyes and hands. It was her duty now to watch this ghastly countenance—these blue, still lips—these eyes now shut, now opening, now wandering through the room, now fixing on her, and ever glazed with the dullness of terror. Sansa had to dip her hand again and again into the basin of cool water, and wipe away the sweat from the man’s hot brow. She had to fumble for the square of linen as the bloody coughs suddenly shook through him, pressing it helplessly to his mouth with a taut, outstretched arm. Sansa watched the light of the unsnuffed candle wane on her employment; the shadows darken on the walls, and grow black under the hangings of the vast old bed, and quiver strangely over the doors of a great cabinet opposite.

            What mystery was at play here, which broke out in screams and laughter at the deadest hours of night? And this man Sansa bent over, how had he become involved in the web of horror? Why did he so quietly submit to the concealment Mr Baratheon enforced? Why _did_ Mr Baratheon enforce his concealment?

            And when will he come? When will he come? Sansa cried inwardly, as the night lingered and lingered—as her patient drooped, moaned, coughed and sickened: and neither day nor aid arrived. She had, again and again, held water to the young man’s pale lips; again and again offered him the stimulating salts: Sansa’s efforts seemed ineffectual: either bodily or mentally suffering, or loss of blood, or all three combined, were fast draining his strength. He moaned and coughed so, and looked so weak, wild, and lost, Sansa feared he was dying; and she might not even speak to him!

            “Laudanum! Please—” the man suddenly rasped, his blue eyes bright with fever.

            Sansa stared back in fright; “I have none, sir,” she whispered, anxious that Mr Baratheon might unexpectedly appear before them, full of fury at their disobedience; “Please, sir, you must not speak to me!”

            The man frowned, and then smiled morbidly; “This is where they kept her, did you know that? When she went—” his words were interrupted by a series of coughs and groans, but at length he continued:

            “When she—” he wheezed, “When she went _mad_. Though she was always a bit mad! No, no—I mean after—after she—after he—”

            “—Please! No more, sir! Do not tax yourself!” cried Sansa anxiously.

            Just then the candle, wasted at last, went out; as it expired, Sansa perceived streaks of grey light edging the window curtains: dawn was then approaching. Presently she heard Actaeon bark far below, out of his distant kennel in the courtyard: hope revived. Nor was it unwarranted: in five minutes more the grating key, the yielding lock, warned Sansa her watch was relieved. It could not have lasted more than two hours: though many a week had seemed shorter.

            Mr Baratheon entered first the outer room, and then the inner chamber; with him was the doctor he had gone to fetch.

            “Now, Tarly, be on the alert,” he said to the portly young physician: “I give you but half an hour to attend to him.”

            Mr Baratheon then drew back the thick curtain and let in all the daylight he could; and Sansa was surprised and cheered to see how far dawn was advanced: what rosy streaks were beginning to brighten the east. Then he approached the bedridden man, whom the doctor was already handling; he held a vial of what Sansa assumed was laudanum to the sickly man’s lips.

            “Tarly you must hurry: the sun will soon rise, and I must have you gone.”

            “Directly, sir,” replied the young doctor, then more hesitantly he continued; “Might I advise a change of climate for the gentlemen? It is the best course of treatment for alleviating and eradicating this condition; my former professor at Oxford, Aemon Tar—”

            “—That is not possible,” interrupted Mr Baratheon; “At this time.”

            “Oh—Well, I have left you with a supply of laudanum; ‘the cure-all’ they say! And instructions as to its administration.”

            Mr Baratheon sighed and looked scornfully at the bedridden man for a moment. “Thank you, Tarly,” he then said. “I am sure that will suit him nicely. Now, you really must be going: I have striven long to avoid exposure, and I should not like it to come at last.”

            “Of course, sir.”

            “Miss Stark,” he turned to Sansa for the first time since his re-entrance, “go on before us to the backstairs; unbolt the side-passage door, and tell the driver of the post-chaise you will see in the yard we are coming: and Miss Stark, if anyone is about, come to the foot of the stairs and alert us with a cough.”

            It was by this time half-past five, and the sun was on the point of rising; but Sansa found the kitchen still dark and silent. The side-passage door was fastened; she opened it with as little noise as possible: all the yard was quiet; but the gates stood wide open, and there was a post-chaise, with horses ready harnessed, and driver seated on the box, stationed outside. Sansa approached him, and said the gentlemen were coming: he nodded: then she looked carefully round and listened. The stillness of early morning slumbered everywhere; the curtains were yet drawn over the servants’ chamber windows; little birds were just twittering in the blossom-blanched orchard trees, whose boughs drooped like white garlands over the wall enclosing one side of the yard; the carriage horses stamped from time to time in their closed stables: all else was still.

            Mr Baratheon and Doctor Tarly now appeared; Tarly promtly climbed up into the chaise, with Mr Baratheon swiftly closing its door behind him. The vehicle then drove away.

            “Would to God there was an end to all this!” murmured Mr Baratheon gloomily, as he closed and barred the heavy yard-gates. This done, he moved with slow step and distracted air, towards a door in a wall bordering the orchard. Sansa, supposing he was done with her, prepared to return to the house; yet she heard him call “Miss Stark!” He had opened the door and stood at it, waiting for her.

            “Come where there is some freshness, for a few moments,” he said; “that house is a mere dungeon: don’t you feel it so?”

            “It seems to me a splendid house, sir.”

            “The glamour of inexperience mars your vision,” he answered; “you see it through a charmed medium: you cannot discern that the silk draperies are cobwebs and the marble sordid slate. Now _here_ ,” he pointed to the leafy enclosure they had entered, “all is real, sweet, and true.” He turned to look at her momentarily before straying down a walk edged with box hedges; with apple trees, pear trees, and cherry trees on one side, and a border on the other, full of all sorts of old-fashioned flowers, stocks, sweet-williams, primroses, pansies, mingled with southern wood, sweet-briar, and various fragrant herbs. The sun was now just fully visible in the east, and its light illuminated the wreathed and dewy orchard trees and shone down the quiet walks under them.

            “Will you have a flower, Miss Stark?”

            He gathered a pink tinged rose, the first on the bush, and offered it to her.

            “Thank you, sir.”

            “Not a blue winter rose, I grant you—but still pretty, no?”

            “Yes, sir; very pretty.”

            “But not one of the favourites you listed to me at the beginning of our acquaintance.”

            Sansa blushed, surprised at his remembrance; “I should think all roses to be favourites of mine, sir; though blue winter roses are particularly dear to me: we grow them at the parsonage in Winterfell.”

            Mr Baratheon nodded, and then continued; “And do you like this sunrise, Miss Stark?”

            “I do, very much.”

            “You have passed a strange night.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “And it has made you look pale—were you frightened when I left you alone with that gentleman?”

            Sansa’s thoughts went to the Grey Lady and she debated whether or not to speak of her to Mr Baratheon; for with the light of the morning came doubt as to the validity of her experience: could it have just been a dream? But surely not: the events which had swiftly followed that spectral sighting were most definitely real; and there had been no time in between those events for her to have suddenly awoken from some strange dream.

            Mr Baratheon hastily took her hand, and as hastily released it, laughing sardonically.

            “You do not answer, and now you look puzzled; I will puzzle you further. You are my little friend, are you not?”

            “I like to serve you, sir, and obey you in all that is right.”

            “Precisely: I see that you do. I see genuine contentment in your manner and expression, your eyes and face, when you are helping me and pleasing me—working for me, and with me, in, as you characteristically say, ‘ _all that is right_ :’ for if I bid you do what you thought wrong, there would be no light-footed running, no neat-handed alacrity, no lively glance and animated complexion. Well, you too have power over me, and may injure me: yet I dare not show you where I am vulnerable, lest, faithful and friendly as you are, you should do me harm.”

            “I would not think myself ever capable of doing you harm, sir; neither would I ever wish to do so,” replied Sansa, quite startled.

            Mr Baratheon looked at her ominously; “Here, is an arbour, Miss Stark,” he murmured at length, his movements coming to a halt, “let us sit down a moment.”

            The arbour was an arch in the wall, lined with ivy; it contained a rustic seat. Mr Baratheon took it, leaving room, however, for Sansa: but she remained standing before him.

            “Sit,” he said; “the bench is long enough for two. You don’t hesitate to take a place at my side, do you?”

            Sansa answered him by assuming it: to refuse would, she felt, have been unwise.

            “Look at me, Miss Stark, and tell me you are at ease, and not fearing that I ere in detaining you, or that you ere in staying.”

            “No, sir,” murmured Sansa; “I am content.”

            “Well then, Miss Stark, indulge me a moment and call to aid your fancy: suppose you were no longer a girl well reared and sensible, but a dour, wild boy often left to his own devices from childhood upwards; imagine yourself now a miserable man; for hope has long quitted you. Yet, by some miracle, though you are heart-weary and soul-withered, you make a new acquaintance—how or where is no matter: you find in this stranger much of the good and bright qualities which you have sought throughout your life, and never before encountered. Such society revives and regenerates: you feel better days come back—higher wishes, deeper feelings; you desire to recommence your life, and to spend what remains to you of days in a way more worthy of such a perfect creature.”

            “Tell me,” he continued, “would you be justified in overleaping an obstacle of custom to attain this gentle, gracious—” He paused and looked at her, “and beautiful stranger?”

            “There is an obstacle?” queried Sansa.

            “A mere convention impediment,” he replied darkly.

            “But what can it be?” she asked; the west wind whispered in the ivy around them as she spoke: the birds sang in the treetops. “If you cherish an affection, sir, then fortune alone cannot impede you.”

            “Yes,” he said, staring back at her with intensity.

            “And if the lady is of noble stock and has indicated that she may reciprocate,” continued Sansa; her words caused her companion to react with a slight incline of the head and a perplexed look.

            “Sansa, of whom do you think I speak?”

            “Of Miss Tyrell,” she replied.

            Mr Baratheon sat perfectly still: the birds went on carolling, the leaves lightly rustling. At last he spoke, in hushed tones:

            “You best run along now, Miss Stark: those Tyrells are always at the stables early. Go in by the shrubbery, through the wicket.”

            As Sansa went one way, he went another; though Sansa did not immediately go back to the house; instead, she determined to stroll about past the meadows, where the farm labourers were already starting their work. They were sowing seeds, under the vigilant surveillance of Mr Seaworth, the land agent; and his weathered face smiled as he saw her walk past, and he raised a hand to wave at her:

            “You’re up and about early, Miss Stark!” he called out to her.

            “Yes, sir: it is a fine morning,” replied Sansa, halting in her tracks.

            “ _Sir_ , is it? No need for that! Just Davos to you, young miss!” He laughed jovially; “though it’s Mr Seaworth to this lot,” he said, gesturing towards the farm labourers, who weren’t paying them any mind; too concentrated on their task.

            “Very well,” Sansa smiled shyly back at him; “Davos.”

            He beamed in return; “Well, young miss! How are you faring up at the old house? Or have you escaped—what with all those hoity toities about! ” His eyes crinkled at the corners in mirth.

            “Perhaps I have escaped,” replied Sansa thoughtfully; “Though I shall return presently.”

            “I hope the master’s moods haven’t been bothering you, miss: he’s a right funny one, he is—though a better, fairer master could not be found in all of Yorkshire—nay, I dare say, England!”

            “He is peculiar, I grant you that.”

            “Aye, he is—right peculiar. But he treats you fair?”

            “Oh, yes! I just can never hope to understand him; his expressions and words never seem in harmony with one another.”

            “He’s a man of his word—whether his damned, grim face matches them or not. Aye: never a more dutiful man alive than our Mr Baratheon, I dare say.”

            Sansa nodded contemplatively.

            “May I ask you a question you might perhaps deem a touch ridiculous, Davos?” she said after a short, thoughtful pause in their discourse.

            “By all means, young miss! Though I sincerely doubt anything you might say could be called ridiculous: you don’t look the sort,” he replied, smiling kindly.

            Sansa flushed, and then hurried on with her question; “Have you ever heard talk of there being a ghost at Storms End?” Sansa winced at the voicing of her suspicions, which now voiced, sounded decidedly silly to her ears.

            “None that I ever heard of,” returned Davos, smiling.

            “Nor any traditions of one? No legends or ghost stories?”

            “I believe not; though I do not live up at the big house. And yet it is said, the Baratheons have been rather a violent than a quiet race in their time: perhaps, though, that is the reason they rest tranquilly in their graves now.”

            “I must say,” he continued, “I don’t go in for that sort of thing, myself; believe what I see with my own two eyes and I can’t say I’ve ever seen anything of the sort! Have you, miss?”

            “Oh, I—n—no!” stammered Sansa nervously.

            “Well, that’s good to hear! Wouldn’t want little ladies like yourself having a fright, now would we?” he said, still smiling.

            “No, indeed not,” she replied, somewhat sheepishly. “I think I better head back now, Davos; it was very pleasant talking with you.”

            “Aye, it was, Miss Stark! Till next time,” he said, waving merrily as she began her walk back up to Storms End.

            That night, despite her talk with Davos Seaworth, Sansa did not dream of the mysterious Grey Lady; nor did she dream of the strange, sickly man concealed in the third story. No, Sansa dreamt all night of Miss Tyrell: in a vivid morning dream she saw her closing the gates of Storms End against her and pointing out another road to Sansa; smiling prettily as she did so; and Mr Baratheon looked on with his arms folded—his mouth set in a grim line as he observed at her. But what, dear readers, is so headstrong as youth? What so blind as inexperience?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, ugh, that sort of confession of love didn't exactly go to plan, did it Stannis... But yay Davos! I've been trying to find a way to fit him in so hopefully it came across well :) Also, poor Renly! Can anyone guess what's wrong with him?
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- Laudanum, created in the 16th century, is a tincture of opium (heroin and morphine are opiates as well), mixed with alcohol. By the 17th century is was being marketed as a "cure-all" drug, and by the 1800s it was widely available to purchase from pubs, grocers, barber shops, tobacconists, pharmacies, and even confectioners; it was often cheaper than alcohol, making it affordable to all levels of society. It was literally prescribed for anything from a persistent cough to melancholy. It was widely used in Victorian society as a medicine, and soon many writers, poets, and artists (as well as ordinary people) became addicted. Strong stuff!
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	10. An Offensive Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely comments! Bit of a delay writing/posting this chapter because I've just started a bit of temp work at my local Waterstones (nice bit of dollar before I head back to uni). Anyway, here it is and it's a thousand words longer than what I usually write! So enjoy! ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Mr Baratheon entered the drawing room with a sense of timely relief on the evening that was to be his guests’ last—a mere two days after the incident involving the mysterious, third story invalid. Stannis Baratheon seemed to hesitate a moment as he stood before the unlit hearth, as if unsure of his next movements; he then set his gaze upon an unaware Sansa Stark, and as his looked he was struck anew with her great beauty; no one with such loveliness ever appeared so little conscious of it. Mr Baratheon would watch her perpetually, whenever he was able, as she moved about a room, or chased his little daughter through the grounds; to his eyes, she possessed the free stately step of some wild animal of the forest.

            At that moment, Sansa was talking to one of the Misses Penrose; about what, he could not hear; but he saw Jocelyn Penrose’s way of continually arranging some part of her gown, her wandering eyes, now glancing here, now there, but without any purpose in her observation; and he contrasted them with the soft, blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes that looked forth steadily at one object, as if from out their light beamed some gentle influence of repose; the curving lines of the pink lips, just parted in the interest of listening to what her companion said—the head a little bent forwards, so as to make a long sweeping line from the summit, where the light caught on the glossy red hair to the smooth ivory length of the neck; the delicate white wrists, and taper hands, laid lightly across each other, but perfectly motionless in their pretty attitude. Mr Baratheon sighed as he took in all this in with one of his sudden comprehensive glances. And then he turned his back to the young ladies, and threw himself, with an effort, but with all his heart and soul, into a conversation with Colonel Tarth.

            Jocelyn Penrose soon abruptly left Sansa’s side, in order converse with Joffrey Kingsley Baratheon. But just a little way off, sat an unusually solitary Miss Tyrell and she was gazing intently at Sansa. Miss Stark was soon fully conscious of this prolonged look, and was trying to get up her courage to return the stare, when Miss Tyrell suddenly said:

            “I like you; you are a pretty little creature, and I want to know you better. Come here, and sit on this chair by me. What is your name? Other than Miss Stark, that is.”

            “Sansa,” she replied, as she took her place by the elegant Margaery Tyrell.

            “Sansa is a sweet, soft-sounding name,” responded Miss Tyrell kindly; she was very merry that evening, despite it being her last at Storms End; and she was very much inclined to talk to Sansa, by way of finding out what sort of a person Mr Baratheon had given his hard-sought attention and affection to. For indeed, the shrewd Miss Tyrell had swiftly realised that for all her attempts to win the adoration of the notoriously grim and cold-hearted Stannis Baratheon, he was not to be caught by her; no: _someone had beaten her to it._

            “Tell me the truth, little miss governess; the truth is generally amusing, if it’s nothing else!” trilled the lady, before sobering slightly; “What do you think of your employer—Mr Stannis Baratheon?”

            “I think he is a very fair and good master of Storms End, Miss Tyrell.”

            “A very diplomatic answer if I ever heard one! But ah! I see in your eyes that you are sincere; what an odd creature you are.”

            “I’m sorry, Miss Tyrell,” replied Sansa, with a hint of confusion.

            “Oh none of that! But if you seek forgiveness, answer me this: do you not think Mr Baratheon a fine-looking man? Not hugely handsome, I grant you—but then I find I think little of male beauty.” She glanced in the direction of Joffrey Kingsley Baratheon and frowned slightly; “Mr Baratheon is a tall, strongly built fellow and that is surely worth more than sun spun hair and emerald eyes—what do you think Sansa Stark?”

            Miss Tyrell’s eyes were alight with such interest that Sansa was quite baffled by it, and so spoke her reply hesitantly:

            “I suppose I agree with you, Miss Tyrell,” she said, blushing, and hating herself for it. “What I mean is, I suppose beauty is of little consequence; if it is a person’s sole virtue.”

            “Yes, I think I understand you,” responded Miss Tyrell with a knowing look; though what she could know, Sansa had no idea. “You have not had the experience I have of— _un-virtuous_ men.”

            Sansa felt it was not her place to pry, so for moment was at a loss as to how to respond. At length, she heaved a long sigh, and said:

            “I know one should not covet beauty—but I should like very much to be pretty: I feel quite drab and invisible.” She turned her head away from her companion for a moment to glance about the room, taking in the many colourful dresses; in particular, Mrs Kingsley Baratheon’s scarlet silk taffeta.

            “Why, Sansa Stark,” said Miss Tyrell, staring at her incredulously with an exclamation on the tip of her tongue; but when she caught the innocent, wistful look on Sansa’s face, she instinctively checked what she was going to say, and half-smiling, she said instead:

            “You know, the French girls would tell you, to believe that you were pretty would make you so.”

            Sansa paused before replying: “I suppose they would mean that if you knew you were pretty, you would never think about your looks; you would be so certain of being liked, and it is caring—”

            “My dear! Don’t trouble yourself with trying to interpret a French girl’s meaning,” laughed Miss Tyrell. “Do you know, I am so desirous of some music but haven’t the slightest inclination to play,” she smiled impishly; “Do you play, Miss Stark?”

            “Yes, I do; or at least I try to, when I have a spare moment.”

            “Well you must be a dear one and play now! Play us some Schubert; I know just the piece for you.”

            Sansa looked at Miss Tyrell with beseeching eyes; her delicate complexion flushed with timidity. But the lady had already risen and had made her way over to the vacant instrument to riffle through the sheet music; Sansa could do nothing other than dutifully follow her.

            “I do not think anyone wishes to hear a lowly governess play, Miss Tyrell,” whispered Sansa as she joined her at the piano; her apprehension was evident in her tone.

            “But my dear! You are much more than just a ‘ _lowly governess_ ,’ I think,” responded Miss Tyrell, with a coy smile.

            Again, Sansa found herself unable to summon up an adequate response for Miss Tyrell; so she hung her head in defeat and kept silent. There seemed little use in trying to extricate herself from playing: Miss Tyrell would not be denied.

            “Ah ha! Here it is,” exclaimed Miss Tyrell, proffering the Schubert piece to Sansa and urging her with a kindly smile to take her place at the piano. “Willas! Willas, come assist Miss Stark: she is to play some Schubert for us!”

            Willas Tyrell swiftly went to stand behind Sansa, as she sat at the piano, so as to be ready to turn over the leaves of her music if she required it; he offered her an encouraging smile when she briefly glanced up at him. Soon enough though, Sansa schooled her nerves and began playing.* At this commencement of music, Miss Tyrell separated herself from the little group and came up to Mr Baratheon by the hearth, and putting her hand on his arm with a familiarity which shocked him a little, she half-whispered:

            “Now you have a proper excuse to stare at her, Mr Baratheon,” a playful smirk graced her lips; “I think you owe me thanks, don’t you?”

            Mr Baratheon looked at her with unmasked disdain: “I have come to find that our thoughts are never in accordance, Miss Tyrell.”

            “Oh come, come! I very much like your pretty little governess; though perhaps she would make you a better _wife_?” She laughed gaily when she took in Mr Baratheon’s stormy expression:

            “Please cease this foolish talk,” he all but growled. “I am not in the mood for your games, Miss Tyrell.”

            “Sad to see us all go?” she replied with mock sincerity. “Fine, I shall leave you, as I see you are in no humour to be teased tonight—only remember my prophecy when my vision comes to pass!” And with those parting words, she sauntered off to converse with the other young ladies present in the drawing room.

            So engrossed as she was in playing, Sansa was rather startled when, at the completion of her performance, Mr Baratheon suddenly spoke to her, close at her side:

            “I have remarked upon it before, but I must say it again: you play very well, Miss Stark,” he said gravely.

            “Yes, an excellent performance, Miss Stark, well done!” added Willas Tyrell; his voice arriving unexpectedly to Mr Baratheon’s ear, thus causing him to scowl slightly and to clench his jaw with impatience.

            Sansa paused a moment, but before she could speak her shy thanks, Mr Baratheon and Mr Tyrell were called away by some of the other gentlemen. She thus rose gracefully from her seat and made her way back to her usual place, tucked away at one end of the room; watching Mr Baratheon from the corner of her eye as she did so. His whole manner, as master of the house, and host of his guests, was so straightforward, yet simple and modest, as to be thoroughly dignified. He was regarded by them as a man of great force of character; of power in many ways.

            As she sat down again, Sansa saw Mr Baratheon’s cousin take hold of his arm, and draw him to one side. From her little nook, Sansa could hear their conversation clearly, though they were unaware of her closeness:

            “Never have I seen a man so grim as you, Stannis!” stated Mr Kingsley Baratheon, with a hint of vexation marring his usually jovial tone. “I don’t see why you haven’t offered for her yet. By God man! You’ve been a widower long enough, in my opinion—and it hasn’t been for any lingering love of Selyse, I know that for a fact!”

            Mr Baratheon moved away from his cousin slightly, lifted his eyebrows a little, and then replied sternly:

            “I don’t recall ever asking your opinion, Robert.”

            His cousin let out a huff of annoyance; “Be that as it may, Stannis, allow me to share it anyway; I only have your best interests at heart, I assure you.”

            “Ha!” laughed Mr Baratheon; “I doubt that very much!” Then his expression and tone darkened considerably; “It is the Baratheon name that interests you, Robert; that and the interests of your investors, one of whom is Sir Mace Tyrell; yes, I am well aware of your foolish speculating. I am also aware that this latest scheme of yours will come to nothing—if you seek certainties from me, accept that one.”

            Surprisingly unperturbed, his cousin gave him a sly look and then murmured: “It’s that pretty little governess that’s made you so irritable, isn’t it? Don’t deny it! She is very attractive—unaccountably so for a mere governess.”

            Sansa’s back straightened suddenly and colour rushed to her face; yet she remained rigid in her seat, unable to move.

            “So why not enjoy both?” Mr Kingsley Baratheon continued; “I’m sure that penniless miss should be grateful for the attention! And if she isn’t, well—you can send her on her way without a reference; just in time for your new bride to make her home here—”

            “What you are suggesting is reprehensible!” interrupted Mr Baratheon, his dark eyes blazing with fury. “How dare you speak of Miss Stark in that manner; how dare you imply that I would ever behave in such a way! I will not adopt the mantle of a cad—a mantle which you seem to be able to don so effortlessly and thoughtlessly, devoid of any scruples! You shame me, Robert; but more importantly, you shame _her_!”

            All throughout his tirade, Mr Baratheon was acutely aware of his surroundings; of the small clusters of people conversing around them; of the embarrassment and disgrace he would feel if they were overheard. With these thoughts in mind he took great pains to keep his voice low and level as he spoke; he was, of course, unaware that this meant that Sansa unable to hear his impassioned condemnation of his cousin’s words. Instead, Sansa felt unrestrained indignation at having been spoken about in such an obscene manner; and in a drawing room no less—where anyone might overhear their conversation! Her hands shook with fury and disgust; she felt she could not remain in that room a minute longer. Thankfully, Shireen chose that moment to sleepily traipse her way over to her governess, allowing Sansa an excuse to swiftly retire from the room; she slept fitfully that night.

            Come noon the next morning, all Mr Baratheon’s guests had departed and Storms Ends once more resumed its habitual and peaceable quiet; Sansa was able to oversee Shireen’s lessons without the distraction that came with a lively household. They achieved much that day, and so it was with little reservation that Sansa was able to dismiss her pupil earlier than usual: so that she might chase Actaeon about the grounds, under the watchful eye of Miss Patchett. Sansa was not in the mood for such frolicking about: her mind was heavy with what she had overheard last night, as well as the seemingly innumerable mysteries pertaining to Storms End and Mr Baratheon. Instead, after feeling that she had been sitting alone and restlessly in the schoolroom for far too long, Sansa decided to take an evening’s turn about the gardens.

            She walked a while along the gravel path; but a subtle movement from some window caught her attention and stilled her in her tracks; Sansa saw the library casement open a handbreadth. She knew she might be watched thence; so, changing her direction, she headed towards the orchard. No nook in the grounds was more sheltered and more Eden-like; it was full of trees and bloomed with flowers: a very high wall shut it out from the yard on one side; on the other, a beech avenue screened it from the lawn. At the bottom was a sunk fence, its sole separation from lonely fields: a winding walk, bordered with laurels and terminating in a giant horse chestnut. Here one could wander unseen.

            Sansa paused a moment, looked round and listened. She heard a nightingale warbling in a wood half a mile off. No moving form was visible, no audible step was heard; and yet, she suddenly felt she must flee. Swiftly, she made for the wicket leading to the shrubbery, then saw Mr Baratheon entering. Sansa stepped aside into the ivy recess; he will not stay long, she thought; he will soon return whence he came, and if I stand still he will never see me. But alas—eventide was as pleasant to him as it was to her it seemed, and this antique garden was uncommonly beautiful.

            Mr Baratheon had his back to her as he strolled on; perhaps, if I walk softly, I can slip away unnoticed, thought Sansa. Carefully, she stepped onto an edging of turf so that the crackle of the pebble gravel might not betray her: Mr Baratheon was now standing pensively among the flower beds, a yard or two’s distance from where Sansa had to pass. But as she crossed his shadow, thrown long over the garden by the moon, not yet risen high, he said quietly without turning:

            “I had wondered where you’d gone, Miss Stark.”

            She made no noise: he did not have eyes in the back of his head—could his shadow feel? Sansa started at first, and then she approached him.

            “On so lovely a night it is a shame to sit in the house; will you walk with me a while, Miss Stark?”

            Sansa did not wish to walk at this hour alone with Mr Baratheon in the shadowy orchard; but she could not find a reason to allege for leaving him. She followed him with lagging step, and thoughts busily bent on discovering a means of extrication; but he himself looked so grave and so strangely agitated, she became ashamed of thinking such things.

            “Miss Stark,” he recommenced, as they entered the laurel-walk, and slowly strayed down in the direction of the sunk fence and the horse chestnut; “Storms End is a pleasant place in spring, is it not?”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “You have an eye for natural beauties, I think.” He paused. “You must have become in some degree attached to this house.”

            “I am attached to it; yes, sir.”

            “And I perceive you have acquired a degree of regard for my daughter too; and even for that old fool, Mrs Cressen?”

            “Yes, sir; in different ways, I have an affection for both.”

            “And would be sorry to part with them?”

            “Yes.”

            A little while ago they had ceased their movements in front of the great horse chestnut; but now Mr Baratheon made a step towards her; stood still; and then heaved with passion. Sansa was a little startled at the evident force he used to keep himself calm. She was not sure of the nature of emotions she had provoked. His eyes glowed, his figure was taught, and his breath came thick and fast. It was a mixture of glad surprise, of adoration, of pride, of hope, of desire, of panting doubt; but she could not read it. Still it made her uneasy—as the presence of all strong feeling, of which the cause is not fully understood or sympathized in, always has this effect.

            Mr Baratheon’s heart throbbed loud and quick. Strong man as he was, he trembled at the anticipation of what he had to say, and how it might be received. She might droop, and flush, and flutter to his arms, as to her natural home and resting-place. One moment he felt feverish with impatience at the thought that she might do this—the next he feared a passionate rejection, the very idea of which withered up his future with so deadly a blight that he refused to think of it.

            “I sometimes have a strange feeling with regard to you,” he began, cautiously; “especially when you are near me, as you are now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string in you. And if you were ever to leave Storms End, I’m afraid that cord of communion would snap; and then I’ve a notion that I’d take to bleeding inwardly. As for you—you’d forget me.”

            He was on the verge now; he would not speak in the haste of his hot passion; he would weigh each word:

            “What you must think of me, I do not know—but my feelings for you, Miss Stark—they are very strong.”

            He let out a choked breath and grasped her hand tight in his. He panted as he listened for what should come; and so threw the hand away with indignation as he heard her icy tone; for icy it was, though the words came faltering out, as if she knew not where to find them.

            “Your way of speaking shocks me, sir—I cannot help it, if that is my first feeling! It might not be so, I dare say, if I understood the kind of feeling you describe. I do not want to vex you; but your whole manner offends me!”

            “How?” he exclaimed. “How am I offensive?”

            Raising her eyes, and looking full and straight at him Sansa responded: “It offends me that you should speak to me as if—”

            She hesitated, thinking back to Mr Baratheon’s conversation with his cousin the previous evening. In spite of herself—in defiance of her anger—the thick blushes came all over her face, and burnt into her very eyes.

            “You think that because you are rich, and my father is in—reduced circumstances, you can have me for your possession!”

            “I don’t want to posses you!” he said vehemently, taking her hand between his once more; “I wish to marry you because I love you!”

            “Love me? Marry me!” cried Sansa, almost at a loss for words.

           “I am a man,” he broke in contemptuously: “I claim the right of expressing my feelings.”

            “And I yielded to the right; simply saying that you gave me pain by insisting upon it,” she replied proudly.

            “Why—Why does it give you pain?” Mr Baratheon’s usually grim, stoic countenance was now a well of emotion.

            “Because I know you are not sincere, sir! Because I know you are to marry Miss Tyrell; that you are in love with Miss Tyrell!”

            “What? Miss Tyrell—I—Do you doubt me, Sansa?”

            “Entirely,” she replied, while trying to extricate herself from his grasp; but he held fast.

            “You have no faith in me?”

            “Not a whit.”

            “Am I a liar in your eyes?” he asked passionately. “Little sceptic, you shall be convinced. What love have I for Miss Tyrell? None! What love has she for me? None, Sansa! I would not—I could not—marry Miss Tyrell. It’s you—you rare, unearthly thing! I love _you_! How could I love anyone else?” He smiled a little, and then grew serious again as he pulled her towards him; “Please—I must entreat you; be my wife, Sansa. Be my wife.”

            “I cannot!” she cried, wrenching herself free from him and taking a few steps back; so as to put some distance between them. “I cannot marry you and I cannot l—love you, because you are deceitful, sir!”

            “Margaery Tyrell is nothing to me—”

            “No! No, you are deceitful because you will never tell me what is going on in this house!” Sansa exclaimed. Her pale cheeks had long since become one flame of fire; and in that moment she covered her face with her hands. When she took them away, her palms were wet with scalding tears; “I have been so afraid! I have never known such fear, sir. So much fear and no hope of an explanation!”

            “What am I to think? How am I to trust you—let alone love you?” she continued, with recovered dignity. “I have heard strange noises, screams and laughter in the dead of night; I have seen a man, ensconced in a secret room, looking as if he were on his deathbed! Worst of all, I have seen what I believe to be the spectre of your dead wife, sir, roaming the gallery—come to haunt her murderer perhaps! But how can I know the truth when I do not possess the facts? All this I have been privy to and in various degrees you have been aware of that circumstance—and still, Mr Baratheon, I am devoid of an explanation from you! Is that not deceitful, sir? Is that not unkind—unjust—cruel, even?”

            “So you despise and fear me, is that how it is?” probed Mr Baratheon irately; “Allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me—”

            “I do not care to understand you,” she replied, placing a hand on the horse chestnut to steady herself; for she thought him too harsh and she was weak with her indignation.

            “No, I see you do not; and yet it is I who stands accused of being unkind, unjust, and cruel,” he said scornfully.

            Sansa compressed her lips. She would not speak in answer to such accusations. But, for all that—for all his anger driven words, he could have thrown himself at her feet, and kissed the hem of her dress. She did not speak; she did not move. The tears of wounded pride fell hot and fast. He waited awhile, longing for her to say something, even a taunt, to which he might reply. At length, she spoke again:

            “I’m sorry,” she said despondently.

            “For what?” he replied savagely; “That you find my feelings for you offensive; or that I take pleasure in concealing facets of my life, which I deem distasteful, from the woman I love; or that you assume I somehow had a hand in my wife’s death!”

            “No! N—no, of course not: I—I’m sorry to be so blunt; I’ve not learnt how to—how to refuse, how to respond when a—when a man talks to me as you just have.”

            “Oh, there are others,” he replied coolly, with an arched brow. “This happens to you everyday?” She shook her head fervently. “Of course: you must have to disappoint so many men who offer you their heart.”

            “Please, understand Mr Baratheon—”

            “I do understand,” he cut in harshly; “I understand you completely.” And making as if he did not see her grave look of regret, he turned abruptly away from her; then, with an accelerated pace, he stormed off back to the house.

            When he had gone, leaving her alone by the great horse chestnut, Sansa thought she had seen the gleam of unshed tears in his eyes; and that turned her profound shock and indignation into something different and kinder, if nearly as painful—self-reproach for having caused such mortification to anyone. But how can I help it, she asked of herself. Sansa truly believed she was indifferent to him; she never liked him; never imagined she could be the recipient of his love; never thought of him as anything other than her employer. And yet, she felt the most terrible and inexplicable grief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh dear...I'm sorry guys, but I love romantic conflict ;) Bit of a mashup of my favourite proposal rejection scene, North and South (borrowed bits from the bbc series and the book), and obviously, the proposal scene from Jane Eyre. 
> 
> Side Notes:
> 
> * Sansa's Schubert piano piece, composed in 1827 = https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CyzUc2vC4JI
> 
> \- Franz Schubert (1797 - 1828) was an Austrian composer, who died young but was extremely prolific during his lifetime. Appreciation of Schubert's music while he was alive was limited to a relatively small circle of admirers in Vienna, but interest in his work increased significantly in the decades following his death. Felix Mendelssohn, Robert Schumann, Franz Liszt, Johannes Brahms and other 19th-century composers discovered and championed his works. From the 1830s through the 1870s, Franz Liszt transcribed and arranged a number of Schubert's works, particularly the songs. Liszt, who was a significant force in spreading Schubert's work after his death, said Schubert was "the most poetic musician who ever lived."
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	11. An Unhappy Departure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another long chapter for you guys :) Thank you for all the lovely reviews. Sorry if there are any editing mistakes, I'll probably go over them later - I just wanted to get this one out there, because...you'll see ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

That same evening, Sansa sat at dinner with Mrs Cressen in the housekeeper’s room and it was with sweet patience that she bore her pain; and rummaged up numberless small subjects for conversation—all except Mr Baratheon, whom she never once named. Indeed, it made her ill to think of him.

            “Goodnight, Miss Stark,” said the kindly housekeeper, rising from her chair. “I have every chance of a good night myself—now all of the master’s guests have departed. Do go to bed and sleep, my dear; for I’m sure you need it, poor child!”

            “Goodnight, Mrs Cressen,” replied Sansa, with all the cheer that she could muster. But as soon as Mrs Cressen left the room, she let her colour go—let the false smile fade away—the eyes grow dull with heavy pain. She released her strong will from its laborious task. Till morning she might feel wretched and weary.

            That night, she lay down on her bed and never stirred. To move hand or foot, or even so much as one finger, would have been an exertion beyond the powers of either volition or motion. She was so tired, so stunned, that she thought she never slept at all; her feverish thoughts passed and repassed the boundary between sleeping and waking, and kept their own miserable identity.

            Sansa began to wonder whether all offers of marriage were as unexpected beforehand—as distressing at the time of their occurrence, as the two she had had. An involuntary comparison between Jon Snow and Mr Baratheon arose in her mind. She had been sorry that an expression of any other feeling than friendship had been lured out by circumstance from Jon Snow. That regret was the predominant feeling, on the first occasion of her receiving a proposal. She had not felt so stunned—so impressed upon as she did now, when echoes of Mr Baratheon’s voice yet lingered in her mind. Mr Baratheon had appeared to her in such a strange passionate way, to make known his love. For, although at first it had struck her that his offer was not of marriage, but of a more distasteful arrangement—yet even before he left her, and certainly, not five minutes after—the clear conviction dawned upon her, shined bright upon her, that he did love her; that he had loved her; that he would love her. And Sansa shrank and shuddered, crept away, and hid from his great love. But it was to no avail.

            For Mr Baratheon’s part, he was as dazed as if Sansa, instead of looking, and speaking, and moving like a tender graceful woman, had been a sturdy fish-wife, and had given him a sound blow with her fists. He felt positive bodily pain as he stormed away from her—a violent headache, and a throbbing pulse. He called himself a fool for suffering so; he said to himself that he hated Sansa Stark, but a wild, sharp sensation of love cleft his dull, thunderous feeling like lightening, even as he shaped the words expressive of hatred. Her indifference would not make him change. He loved her and would love her; his greatest comfort would be in embracing his torment.

            He stood still for a moment outside of the great, grey façade of Storms End, as if to make this resolution firm and clear. Then quite abruptly, he retreated from the house, and started walking briskly, heading for the dark, moonlit fields; this sharp motion relieving his mind somewhat.

            He could remember all about it now; the pitiful figure he must have cut; the absurd way in which he had gone and done the very thing he had so often agreed with himself in thinking would be the most foolish thing in the world; and had met with exactly the consequences which, in his wiser moods, he had always foretold were certain to follow, if he ever did make such a fool of himself. But those beautiful eyes, that soft, sighing mouth had well and truly bewitched him. If Stannis Baratheon was a fool in the evening, as he assured himself at least twenty times he was, he did not grow much wiser come the morning. All that he gained in return for his twilight walk was a more vivid conviction that there never was, never could be, anyone like Sansa Stark; that she did not love him and never would; yet neither she, nor the whole world, could ever hinder him from loving her.

            In the morning, Sansa dragged herself up, thankful that the night was over—unrefreshed, yet rested. She sat at her work in the schoolroom, correcting Shireen’s sentences, while the little girl copied out French verbs. As soon as that forenoon slumber was over, she would bring the globes out and teach Shireen more of her European countries; after luncheon, she would take her charge out to play in the grounds before their afternoon lessons. Sansa determined to banish all recollection of Mr Baratheon—no need to think of him till he absolutely stood before her in flesh and blood. But, of course, the effort not to think of him brought him only the more strongly before her; and from time to time, the hot flush came over her pale face, sweeping it into colour, as a sunbeam from between watery clouds comes swiftly moving over the sea.

            Come the afternoon, Justine, the maidservant, opened the schoolroom door very softly, and stole on tiptoe up to Sansa, sitting by a shaded window.

            “Mr Baratheon, Miss Stark. He is in the library.”

            Sansa dropped her ink pen.

            “Has he asked for me?”

            “Yes, miss.”

            “Very well, I will come; please send for Miss Patchett to watch over Shireen,” said Sansa quietly. But she lingered in the room strangely.

            In the library, Mr Baratheon stood by one of the windows, with his back to the door, apparently absorbed in watching the gardeners bustle about outside. But, in truth, he was afraid of himself. His heart beat thick at the thought of her coming. Earlier in the day—to convince himself of the power of his self-control—he had lingered over every piece of estate business that had manifested itself to him, shutting himself away in the library; yet he was too proud to acknowledge his weakness in having, for the better part of the day, taken pains to avoid the sight of her.

            He was soon startled by the sense of the presence of someone else in the room. He turned around. She had come in so gently, that he had never heard her; the sound of the gardeners’ shovels and trowels had been more distinct in his inattentive ear than her slow movements, in her soft muslin gown. He thought he should dislike seeing one who had mortified him so keenly; but he was mistaken. It was a stinging pleasure to be in the room with her, and feel her presence.

            Sansa stood by a table, away from him. Her eyelids were dropped half over her eyes. The fine-grained skin, the oval cheek, the rich outline of her mouth—were all wan and pale today; the loss of their usual natural healthy colour being made more evident by the dark grey tone of her dress.

            Mr Baratheon made a hasty step or two forwards; recovered himself, and went with quiet firmness to the door (which she had left open), and shut it. Then he came back, and stood opposite her for a moment, receiving the general impression of her beautiful presence, before he dared to disturb it by what he had to say.

            “I asked you here to give you this,” he murmured, reaching into his tailcoat pocket to retrieve a letter, which he had spent most of the night writing; “I shall not renew the sentiments which were so disgusting to you; but if I may, I will address the offence of deceitfulness you have laid against me.”

            Sansa cautiously took the proffered letter from his hand, and then made to open it.

            “Please, don’t,” he interjected, in a pained voice. “Please, refrain from reading it in my presence.”

            “Very well, sir,” Sansa quietly replied, her hands ceasing their movements.

            “I think—I feel,” stammered Mr Baratheon, taking a step back from her; “I feel it is in both our best interests if I retire to London for some time—I don’t know for how long—obviously, I am needed here—Shireen, Renly—” His words seemed to dry up on his lips.

            A sudden, terrible realisation struck Sansa and she was thus compelled to put a voice to it: “No—no, it is I who must go, sir. I shall grieve to leave Storms End: I love Storms Ends—but I now see the necessity of departure.”

            “Where do you see the necessity?” he asked frantically. “No: you must stay! I sweat it—and the oath shall be kept.”

            “Where do I see the necessity?” replied Sansa incredulously; “Sir, you have placed it before me.”

            “In what shape?”

            “Mr Baratheon, I cannot—I will not—make you flee from a place which is more your home than mine! It is not right, sir.”

            “I don’t care,” he said vehemently; “I don’t care. Listen to me: do not go.”

            “Believe me, I must!” Sansa retorted, roused to something like passion.

            He stared at her for a moment; renewed heartbreak clear in his stormy blue eyes, though he tried his best to hide it.

            “Fine,” he said softly, and then with growing force: “Go—go tomorrow, if that’s your wish. And perhaps you will believe _me_ , when I say that any foolish passion I had for you is now entirely over.” He then walked out of the room very hastily.

            Sansa did not stir from where he’d left her; no outward circumstances had roused her out of the trance of thought in which she had been plunged by his last words, and by the look of his deep intent passionate eyes, as their flames had made her own fall before them. Abruptly, she went to the window—the very one Mr Baratheon had been gazing out of upon her entrance—and threw it open, to dispel the oppression which hung around her. In due course, she went upstairs to her chamber to gather together her belongings, so that all would be ready come morning.

            “Oh, my dear!” said Mrs Cressen, clasping Sansa’s hand between her wrinkled ones as they stood outside the entrance of Storms Ends; waiting for Mr Baratheon’s post chaise to be driven in. “Mr Baratheon told me you must go home, to Winterfell; that a relative of yours is ill! Oh, my child, I am sorry—I hope you will not be kept away for too long!”

           Sansa was quite startled by the housekeeper’s words; did Mr Baratheon not wish her to be dismissed for good? Just then, Shireen burst through the entrance door, and ran towards her in floods of tears, Miss Patchett rushing after her.

            “Miss Stark! Oh, Miss Stark, tell me you are not leaving us forever!” cried the little girl, flinging herself into Sansa’s open arms.

            “Hush, sweetling,” murmured Sansa, as she stroked her dark hair fondly; “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone—no, don’t cry, my darling—I must go, but I’m sure we’ll see each other again soon.” Sansa kissed Shireen’s head, tears threatening to spill from her own eyes; despite her assurances that she would see Shireen again soon, truthfully, Sansa was not so certain.

            The little girl sniffled: “I hope your relative gets better soon, Miss Stark; it makes me very sad to be parted with you: I love you very much, you see.”

            Sansa smiled sadly, “And I love you, Shireen. But look, the post chaise has come, which means I must leave you now; promise me you’ll be a good girl for Miss Patchett and Mrs Cressen?”

            “I promise,” replied the little girl, stepping out of Sansa’s arms and rubbing her tears away with her sleeve.

            “It is a shame the master isn’t here to see you off, Miss Stark,” said Mrs Cressen as she took Shireen’s little hand in hers. “But he left so early; business in Felwood, I believe.”

            “It is no matter,” replied Sansa, though her heart ached strangely in her chest. “Goodbye Mrs Cressen, Miss Patchett, Shireen.”

            As Sansa stepped up into the carriage, Miss Patchett came to the window and looked up at her with a cheery smile; “Farewell Miss Stark; though I know for certain we will see you again soon!”

            Sansa looked at her oddly for a moment and then returned her smile; “Farewell; take care of Shireen for me.”

            The horses stamped their feet impatiently: “We best be off now, miss,” came the voice of the driver; Miss Patchett took a step back and raised her hand in adieu, alongside Mrs Cressen and Shireen. Then the carriage lurched forward and away they went, leaving Storms End in its wake.

            Thus was Sansa dismissed and thus she sought her home. Alas! she thought, what would her family think of her; unable, after all her boasting, to keep her place, even for a single year? There had been no time to send a letter ahead of her informing them of her imminent arrival, so it was with great surprise and joy that the Starks welcomed her back to the parsonage. Her father was so much recovered from his previous bout of ill health that he swept her up in his arms, as he used to do when she was a little girl, the moment he saw her. Naturally, they asked her, though they were more than happy that she had come home, why it was that she had left Storms End so suddenly.

            “Mr—my employer—he—I asked if I might have some leave to visit you all and he was gracious enough to allow it,” said Sansa, eyes downcast, as they all piled into the parsonage’s morning room.

            “But why didn’t you send us a letter, telling us you were coming?” asked her mother gently; “I would have made sure we had some lemons for you.” Her eldest daughter gave her a sad smile. “But it’s no matter, we’re just happy to have you home; and we can get some lemons tomorrow.”

            By pinching here, and scraping there, and with the Sansa’s contribution of her carefully saved wages, as well as Robb success at selling his paintings, their debts were mostly all paid off. It was the latter part of April when Sansa returned home. The forest trees were all one dark, full, dusky green; the fern below them caught all the slanting sunbeams and April showers. Sansa remembered tramping along with her brothers and sister, crushing down the fern with glee, as she felt it yield under her light foot, sending up the fragrance peculiar to it—out onto the moors into the scented light, where multitudes of wild, free, living creatures, revelled in the sunshine and heath blossoms.

            That evening Sansa feigned exhaustion from her journey and retired to hers and Arya’s chamber early; and indeed, she was tired but it was not that which sent up into her room in such haste; it was the letter from Mr Baratheon, and her desire to at last read it. She had felt too heartsick at leaving Storms End to read it during her journey; and then her family’s fussing had prevented her from a moment’s solitude to read it as well.

            Finding the letter tucked away between two dresses, Sansa swiftly retrieved it; and standing at the centre of her childhood room, she opened it and began reading:

 

            _Miss Stark,_

_The man concealed in the third story room of Storms End is my younger brother, Renly Baratheon. No doubt, you are aware, through your brief nursing of him, that he is currently suffering from that most wasting of illnesses—consumption. You must understand that keeping him hidden as I do gives me no amount of comfort. No, if I was at liberty to do so I would have sent him away for ‘open-air treatment’ as soon as I found him. But I could not, would not, while I believed him to be in danger._

_You may recall that prior to our first meeting I had been in London for some time; this was in an effort to recover my brother, who had been gallivanting about the East End and spending money against his expectations. I had received word from Loras Tyrell that he had fallen ill and had since been left to recover somewhere by the young men he was travelling with. What I discovered was my brother suffering the beginnings of consumption, and out of his mind on that accursed substance known as opium. It was a wretched hole I found him in, Miss Stark; so low were the ceilings that we were unable to stand upright. It was a place where one goes to buy oblivion; a den of horror where the memory of old sins can be destroyed by the madness of new ones._

_During my stay in London, and prior to my discovery of my brother’s whereabouts, I had become increasingly aware that he had accumulated many debts; beyond what I had previously imagined, and to such persons, the characters of which I do not wish to fully describe to you, Miss Stark: I could say that they were crooked and devious, but that would not do them justice. One, in particular, a man named Gregor Clegane, was set in his vengeance against Renly. Believe me when I say that this madman sincerely wished to harm my brother; perhaps even kill him. At the time, I thought it best to hide him away at Storms End as I was not fully aware of the extent of his illness and addiction. I have since taken great pains in attempting to discover and pay off all of my brother’s debts; calling upon the assistance of Mr Tyrell, as my brother has not been of sound enough mind to reveal the nature of his debt to Clegane to me. But regardless of this fact, I would have felt it my duty to pay off the bulk of his debts._

_You might think that Storms End is far enough away from London that my brother would be safe here; and that after some time I could have removed him to the continent for treatment. Unfortunately, I had for many weeks been receiving reports from Clegane’s brother that Mr Clegane had not lost interest in Renly, and had in fact began travelling north in an effort to find him. It was with Loras’ arrival at Storms End that I discovered from him that there had been talk of a man fitting Clegane’s unique description as close to us as Whitby. So you see, Miss Stark, though it pains me because I can see it does his health little benefit, I cannot allow him to travel; it is too dangerous._

_I see now it was wrong of me to impose upon you as I did and then offer you no explanation. I kept this all from you because I did not want you to be burdened by it; I did not wish your perfect, innocent mind to be tainted by such a sordid and sorry tale. Also, I believe part of me was ashamed, and so I felt could not tell you. I wasn’t ashamed of him; I was ashamed of myself because I am convinced that there must have been something I could have done to prevent this all from happening. We have often been at odds with one another, Renly and I, but believe me when I say that I do love him. Indeed, I do not think I can ever forgive myself for this evasion of duty: I should have been more of a brother to him than I was. I can only hope that he will recover so that we might begin to make amends with one another. Though hope has been of little use to me in the past._

_Regarding your accusation that I killed my wife, the proof of which being your alleged sighting of her vengenful ghost, I can tell you that Renly is more to blame for that sighting that I. Indeed, if you were referring to the incident I believe you are then you might recall that it was on the night following a game of charades. I make mention of this because I believe some items of dress must have been carelessly left out; not returned to their wardrobes and boxes as the others were. Do you recall seeing a ‘woman’ in a grey dress and white veil? If so, this was no woman at all, Miss Stark; nor was it, I regret to inform you, a phantom come to do some haunting. It was in fact my brother, who after prescribing himself a considerable dose of laudanum without his nurse’s knowledge, had decided to join in with the fun of the previous night’s charades while she slept unawares. As I said before, Renly and I have often been at odds with one another, and in his lucid moments his current state and dependence on me goads him very much. I believe it gives him some amusement and relief from his suffering to remind me of mine. I dare say, he would be glad to know that you thought he was the ghost of Selyse; I believe that was the desired effect, though I failed to see the humour in it, as he did._

_My wife’s death has always been of particular interest to people, due to the sudden nature of it. Though in hindsight, I believe it was quite calculated and drawn out. I should begin by telling you that I did not love my wife, nor did she bear any affection for me. She was wanted by my father for her fortune; I hardly spoke with her before the wedding. Nevertheless, I did my duty and married her knowing full well that the arrangement was devoid of sentiment. That is not to say I was not sorry that she died. I was sorry, for our daughter’s sake; it is a difficult thing to lose a parent._

_Selyse was an emotional woman, prone to hysterics even before Shireen was born. She had suffered through several miscarriages and berated herself for being unable to bear me an heir; the birth of a healthy baby girl, though a joy to me, did nothing to alleviate this feeling in her. If anything, her black moods worsened; though they were not nearly as bad as how it was by the end. It became clear to me that Selyse did not care for Shireen, not as one would expect a mother to. The sight of our daughter only distressed her; so as her husband, I believed it my duty to do what I could to help her. So I sent my daughter away. Though it caused me pain to do so, I thought her better off at Greenstone, in the care of her cousins, the Estermonts. For a time, I think this eased Selyse’s suffering somewhat. And I foolishly believed that with a little respite from the pressures of motherhood our lives would regain a semblance of normality. That was not to be._

_Soon after Shireen was sent away I employed a woman to be a kind of companion and nurse for Selyse. Miss Melisandre Asshai soon became a true confidante to her. And though Selyse was still of a fragile disposition, in those early days she seemed happier to me. I stayed out of their way as best I could, but somehow, through no encouragement on my part, Miss Asshai developed a fascination with me. I could not explain it at the time and can hardly make sense of it now. Her conduct towards me bordered on the obsessive and all the while my wife grew worse with her illness, but insisted that Miss Asshai remain by her side. To be brutally honest, a kind of madness had taken hold of Selyse. She began suffering from both euphoric and horrific hallucinations; her eyes would turn almost black with delirium, her skin hot to the touch. Her behaviour was bizarre and at times quite violent; any hope I had of bringing my daughter home was crushed. Only cruelty would check Selyse, and I wouldn’t use cruelty. Have you ever set foot in a madhouse, Sansa? The inmates are caged and bated like beasts. I spared her that at least._

_Ultimately, this erratic behaviour culminated in Selyse somehow climbing atop the battlements one evening and in her crazed delirium she threw herself from it. I had followed her up there with the intention of stopping her, but her madness made her beyond reason. Her death was ruled a suicide. However, shortly after her death, Miss Asshai, who was still in the house at the time, approached me with a mind set on seducing me. She told me that now my wife was dead we could be together; that I was her “prince that was promised.” She seemed to me in that moment to be as insane as my late wife. I may not have loved Selyse but I would not have dishonoured her by entangling myself with Miss Asshai. Moreover, I was suspicious of Miss Asshai’s involvement in my wife’s death; I thought perhaps due to her obsession with me she might have manipulated Selyse’s unstable mind._

_I am afraid to say that truth was far more sinister. It must have arrived with Miss Asshai, for I had never seen it in the garden before her arrival; neither had the gardeners. Miss Stark, are you familiar with a plant called Datura? It is an ornamental plant with large leaves and white flowers, possessing a sweet floral freshness. But its other names reveal its true nature: Devil’s Trumpet, Hell’s Bells, and Poisoned Moon Flower. Datura, as with most of its Nightshade siblings, holds its poison in its seeds, leaves and blossoms. With the discovery of this plant came the discovery of a stash of dried seeds and leaves, carefully hidden away in Miss Asshai’s chamber. It became clear that Miss Asshai had been gradually intensifying my wife’s already fragile state of mind with the aid of a tea made from this highly poisonous plant. She must have been very skilled indeed, to be able to measure out the dosage as she did; she could have quite easily killed her. Without informing her of my discovery, I swiftly made plans for her incarceration. But somehow, and to this day I do not know how, that witch slipped out of my grasp; she and her insanity inducing plant disappeared into the night. It seemed futile to try to pursue her; she left no trace of herself anywhere. Besides, everyone seemed so convinced that Selyse’s death had been suicide that it was impossible to dispute the fact._

_So there you have it, Miss Stark. At times I thought of telling you, and I believe I came close to it once. I hope your curiosity is now duly satisfied._

_Stannis Baratheon_

 

            “Sansa?”

            She turned around, to see her sister standing in the doorway of their chamber; she quickly hid the letter behind her.

            “Sansa, are you alright?” Arya asked, anxiously.

            “I hardly know,” she replied, her voice choked with emotion, tears threatening to spill from her sorrowful eyes. “I hardly know, Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bombshell or what??! God, and we thought the last chapter was an emotional one! But hey, no pain no gain. It gets worst before it gets better, right? (I'm sorry Tommy)
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- Whitby is a seaside town in Yorkshire, northern England. Literary fact: on the East Cliff, overlooking the North Sea, the ruined Gothic Whitby Abbey was Bram Stoker’s inspiration for Dracula.
> 
> \- Datura inoxia was first identified by the English botanist Philip Miller in 1768. It is native to Central and South America, but has since been widely cultivated as an ornamental plant. An account in the Journal of the Washington Academy of Sciences places it in a botanical garden on Sloane Street, London, as early as 1812. It is a potent deliriant and during the Medieval period it was a poison used to bring on madness. It was considered a particularly nefarious poison before modern toxicology because the behaviours a Datura sufferer may display could be mistaken in centuries past for anything from Schizophrenia to demon possession, to Rabies. It's a very interesting plant, albeit a creepy one. Check out it's wiki page if you want to know more :)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	12. Under The Same Sky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely reviews :) Ready to see how our favourite pair deal with their separation?? ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Arya made her sister sit down on the bed, and went for a shawl to cover her with. Her tenderness released Sansa’s tears; and she cried bitterly.

            “Sansa—Sansa, what’s wrong? Tell me,” her sister said, looking worriedly at her, as Sansa lay down on the bed, shaking with her sobs. After a while they ceased, and she began to wonder whether or not she should give herself the relief of telling her sister of all her trouble.

            No: she would keep Mr Baratheon’s secrets; she believed she owed him that much, considering all the pain and mortification she had caused him. Alone she would endure her lowered position in the opinion of Mr Baratheon; for what must he think of her now? He had suffered so much and she had the nerve to accuse him of murder, of all things, when in truth he had done all he could for the late Mrs Baratheon. And his brother—oh, it was his brother! Of course—he was now the recipient, as ill, poor, and ungrateful as he was, of Mr Baratheon’s dutiful understanding and honourable kindness. Oh, what a fool I have been! lamented Sansa. In that moment, lying on her childhood bed while her sister anxiously watched her, she felt herself to be the most wretched and thoughtless girl alive.

            “Don’t cry, Sans. Whatever it is, it’s all right: you’re home now,” murmured Arya soothingly, as she sat down beside her on the bed.

            “Oh, Arya,” sobbed Sansa, a fresh bout of tears welling up in her eyes; “I’ve behaved so badly! He must hate me now; I’m sure he must.” Hesitantly, her sister began to gently rub her trembling back.

            “Who? Who must hate you now?” she said softly.

            “Mr Baratheon!” wailed Sansa.

            “Mr Baratheon? As in, the father of the little girl you are governess to? _That_ Mr Baratheon?”

           “Yes, _that_ Mr Baratheon,” huffed Sansa through her tears.

            “Why—what happened?”

            Sansa sniffed; “I can’t tell you—Or rather, I mustn’t.”

            “Whatever it is, I’m sure it’s not so very bad. Besides, you’ve always been the perfect little lady; so I can’t imagine what you could have done to make him _hate_ you.”

            “But he does hate me; I’m sure he does!”

            “Alright, maybe he does hate you!” exclaimed Arya with a frown. Their bedchamber descended into quiet; the only noise was Sansa’s occasional tearful sniffs. “I’m sorry,” said Arya, after a moment or two; “I promise we shan’t have to speak of it; if you don’t want to.”

            “Thank you,” replied Sansa softly, rising to a sitting position.

            She was unspeakably touched when, as they readied themselves for bed, Arya made an effort to think of cheerful subjects on which to talk, so as to take Sansa’s thoughts away from dwelling on all that had happened of late. At last she smiled; a poor, weak little smile, but it gave her sister the truest pleasure to see it. Nevertheless, she did not sleep well that night. How was it that Mr Baratheon haunted her imagination so persistently? Why did she care what he thought of her? Why did Sansa tremble, and hide her face in her pillow? What strong feeling had overtaken her at last?

            Around midnight she sprang out of bed, causing her sister to grumble sleepily; and getting down on her knees, Sansa prayed long and earnestly. It soothed and comforted her so to open her heart. But as soon as she reviewed her position she found the sting was still there; that she was not strong enough to be indifferent to the lowered opinion of a fellow-creature. She forced herself to recollect all the conversations that had passed between them; speech-by-speech, she compelled her memory to go through with it. At the end, she rose up, and said to herself, in a melancholy voice:

            “I’ve been so blind.”

            Her heavy sadness followed her into the next day. It made her family uneasy to see her pallid looks. She seemed continually on the point of weeping; but when asked what the matter was, Sansa would shake her head sadly, and then swiftly find some occupation to distract herself with. In the evening, she read aloud Robb’s most recent letter from Cambridge, as the Starks gathered together in the drawing room after dinner. She read well: she gave the due emphasis; but had anyone asked her, when she had ended, the content of what she had been reading, she could not have told.

            Afterwards, Sansa sat silent while her younger siblings japed and laughed as they recounted the most noteworthy anecdotes of that day to their father; Mr Stark had spent the day visiting the Winterfell parishioners. But it was no smiling matter to Sansa. She hardly attended to what her brothers and sister were saying. Her thoughts ran upon the idea, before entertained, but which now assumed the strength of a conviction, that Mr Baratheon no longer held his former good opinion of her—that he was disappointed in her; that he now thought her callous and narrow-minded. She did not feel as if any apology, any explanation, could ever reinstate her—not in his love, for that and any return on her part she had resolved never to dwell upon, and she kept rigidly to her resolution—but in his respect and high regard.

            It sent an odd feeling to her heart, to know how she could feel towards one who had reason to despise her; his cause for contempt was so just in her eyes. Yet it was a pleasure to feel how thoroughly she respected him, in a way perhaps she hadn’t previously. He could not prevent her doing that; it was the one comfort in all this misery. Though she kept choking down sobs and swallowing all the time that she thought about it—about him.

            Mrs Stark, noticing her eldest daughter’s reserved attitude, and thinking her tired, sent her early to her room. There, Sansa sat long hours by the open window; even after Arya had come up, looked at her quizzically and called her to bed a few times before relenting. She gazed out on the deep, dark sky above, where the stars arose, and twinkled and disappeared behind large shady trees. As she stargazed, she recalled a memory from her childhood, on a similarly starry night; Sansa remembered promising herself to live as brave and noble a life as any heroine she ever read or heard of in romance, a life without fear and without reproach; it had seemed to her then that she had only to will, and such a life would be accomplished. Now it seemed to Sansa that life was not so simple.

            After several days of misery-induced confinement within the parsonage, her sister forcibly dragged Sansa out of the house. In ten minutes they were treading the wild track of the glen, side by side. The breeze was from the west: it came over the hills, sweet with scents of heath and rush; the midday sky was a stainless blue; the stream descending the ravine, swelled with past spring rains, poured along plentiful and clear, catching golden gleams from the sun, and sapphire tints from the sky. As Sansa and Arya wordlessly advanced and left the track, they trod a soft turf, mossy fine and emerald green, minutely enamelled with a tiny white flower, and spangled with a star-like yellow blossom. The Starks clung to the purple moors behind and around their dwelling—to the hollow vale into which the pebbly bridle-path leading from their gate descended; and which wound between fern-banks first, and then amongst a few of the wildest little pasture-fields that ever bordered a wilderness of heath, or gave sustenance to a flock of grey moorland sheep, with their little mossy-faced lambs.

            Sansa felt the consecration of the moor’s moodiness and loneliness: as she walked quietly by her sister’s side, her eye feasted on the outline of swell and sweep—on the wild colouring communicated to ridge and dell, by moss, by heath-bell, flower-sprinkled turf, by brilliant bracken, and mellow granite crag. These details were just to Sansa what they were to Arya—so many pure and sweet sources of pleasure. The strong blast and the soft breeze; the rough and the tranquil day; the hours of sunrise and sunset; the moonlight and the clouded night wound round Sansa’s faculties the same spell that entranced all of the Starks. This was their motherland, their little bit of England.

            “Thank you, Arya,” Sansa said at length, breathing in deeply; “I think I needed this.”

            “Well, I was sick of your moping; you were doing yourself no good.”

            “Yes,” sighed Sansa. “Yes, I know.”

            “Can’t you tell me what’s wrong,” began Arya hesitantly. “What happened between you and Mr Baratheon? You don’t have to give me the particulars,” she hurried on; “You can be as vague as you like—well not too vague—”

            “Arya,” her sister interrupted with a soft voice. “Promise me you won’t tell anyone?”

            “We’re sisters: you can trust me,” replied Arya earnestly.

            “He—Mr Baratheon—he proposed to me and I rejected him,” whispered Sansa, her voice tinged with sadness and shame.

            “And now—now you regret it?”

            “Yes—well, no, I—” Sansa felt herself redden. “I didn’t know he loved me; I had thought myself so very below his notice. What’s more, I believed him to be—maybe not in love—but attached to another woman.” She looked at her sister imploringly; “So you see, it was all such a shock to find out how wrong I was—how blind I’d been! Oh Arya, I said some dreadful things to him; I accused him of being deceitful, because I believed him to be insincere in his affections; I called him unkind, unjust and _cruel_ , because he had kept things from me—about the house and about his family—, which I now understand and sympathise with fully. He wrote me a letter explaining it all; he had wished to spare me the burden of it, you see, and in return for that kindness I had let myself imagine him to be things utterly opposed to his true nature.” She shook her head woefully; “I know him now to be the most honourable of men. And I _bitterly_ repent the pain and mortification I have caused him; for I know I hurt him very badly.”

            Sansa saw in her sister’s solemn grey eyes a deep sympathy and sisterly understanding.

            “Is that why you left?”

            Sansa nodded gravely: “Yes; and I will never be able to make amends, because I am not likely ever to see Mr Baratheon again; because I know, _I know_ he can’t want me back.”

            There was a long pause of silence while Arya thought over all she had heard. At last she spoke again:

            “There are many things more unlikely, I should say,” she said thoughtfully.

            “But I believe I never shall,” affirmed Sansa. “Still, somehow one does not like to have sunk so low in—in a friend’s opinion as I have done in this.” Her eyes were accountably sad, but her voice remained steady. Her thoughts went back to Storms End, with a strange sense of contrast between her life there, and here.

            At Storms End, Mr Baratheon was conscious that he had never in his life been so irritable as he was now; and by nature he was a moody sort of man. He felt inclined to give a short, abrupt answer, more like a bark than a speech, to anyone who asked him a question; and this consciousness hurt his pride. His solution was to retreat into himself, becoming more than usually silent at home; employing his evenings in a continual pace backwards and forwards at his brother’s sickbed, in the second story apartment he had recently been moved to; now that he seemed a little better, and all the guests had left, ensuring that there was no risk of a divulgence of his whereabouts somehow reaching Clegane.

            Night after night, Mr Baratheon took estate books and papers into his own private room, and sat up there long after the servants were gone to bed. He doggedly committed to this occupation all of the hours he should have spent in sleep. In the mornings, when daylight was stealing in through the crevices of his curtains, and he had never been in bed, Mr Baratheon, in hopeless indifference of mind, would often determine that he could go without the hour or two of rest, which was all that he should be able to take before the house began to stir, and his own duties as master began. He kept himself busy during the day, despite Shireen’s telling him “papa, you look tired,” and “papa, you look sad.” At night he imprudently, yet resolutely strove to avoid that unconscious state wherein his thoughts inevitably drifted to _her_.

            But Sansa Stark could not be ignored. The memory of her pervaded nearly his every sense: the brush of her skirts against his legs in a dewy, sunlit garden; the touch of her soft fingers against his as she offered him tea; the colour of her hair in the evening firelight; the rosy flush of her pale cheeks when she blushed; that heady floral scent from many walks amongst the roses; her shy smile; those intelligent blue eyes; the curve and pink of her lips; every word she ever said and every look she ever gave him.

            It was this that made the misery—that he passionately loved her, and thought her more lovely and more excellent than any other woman, despite having declared his feelings “foolish” and “entirely over” at the time of his rash dismissal of her. Oh, Sansa, Sansa! How you have tortured me, bemoaned Mr Baratheon; could you not have loved me, as uncouth and hard as I am?

            No, of course not: I might have driven her away, but unquestionably, she surely wished to go, he concluded forlornly.

            On one particular morning it was quite wet and dreary outside, but that did nothing to deter Mr Baratheon and Actaeon from striding out into the open air for a long walk. He did not care a whit for the weather; by his estimation, all the sunshine and warmth at Storms End had fled with Miss Stark. It sobered him back into grave resolution, that henceforth, should she ever wish to return, he would make an effort to see as little of her as possible—since the very sight of that face and form, the very sounds of that voice (like the soft winds of pure melody) had such power to move him from his balance. He would not dismiss her—no, that he could never do; for Shireen’s sake he would not make her part with her dear Miss Stark. Mrs Cressen, too, was fond of her; no doubt _everyone_ at Storms End was: she had that unknowing, likeable charm about her.

            Interrupting his reverie, Actaeon suddenly let out a bark of happy recognition and darted off behind him; Mr Baratheon turned his head to see a little way off his land agent, Davos Seaworth, astride a handsome Cleveland Bay:

            “Sir?” his old friend called out to him. “Mr Baratheon, sir.”

            Seaworth swiftly rode up to meet him, looking quizzically down at his master: Mr Baratheon’s boots were caked in mud, his black hair was wet and wildly pushed back from his face, and his dark blue tailcoat looked sodden from the recent rainfall. Mr Baratheon did not acknowledge him, nor did he fully turn to face him; instead, he cast his stormy gaze out across the long stretch of field and then forcefully flung the stick he had been clutching; Actaeon barked excitedly, his large, lean, shaggy grey form bounding off after it. Mr Baratheon then turned; the look on his face was strained and pale.

            “You seem unwell, sir. You should go home.” Davos’ horse, Betha, shifted her weight a little, as if to mirror her rider’s uneasiness and worry.

            Mr Baratheon nodded slightly, his arms hanging loosely at his sides. “Yes.” He looked away and then back at Davos; Actaeon was returning, stick in his mouth and tail wagging. “Yes, I—I will.”

            “I had a mind to go inspect the drainage on the lower fields, sir; but I’d be happy to accompany you back—”

            “No,” interjected Mr Baratheon; he scrubbed a hand against his stubbly jaw wearily; “Davos, don’t trouble yourself.”

            “If you say so, sir.”

            “I do.”

            Actaeon butted his head against his master’s leg expectantly; the stick was then flung out across the field once more, the deerhound close behind it.

            “You’ve had many worries of late, sir—with that brother of yours.” Davos shook his head. “You shouldn’t overtax yourself, master.”

            Mr Baratheon let out a dejected yet somewhat amused huff.

            “Aye, if Miss Stark were here she’d be able to talk some sense into you.”

            Affronted, his master replied: “Why—why do you say that?”

            “Only because she’s such a dear girl. My Marya is anxious to know when she’ll be back; I had suggested to Miss Stark that she and Shireen could pay my wife a visit, and Marya would show them how to make her red onion marmalade.” Davos smiled fondly at the thought of it.

            No answer came from Mr Baratheon. No change of countenance. Actaeon barked again, gazing devotedly up at his master; Mr Bartheon scratched his head affectionately.

            “Aye, a sweet girl, that Miss Stark.”

            “I admire Miss Stark,” began Mr Baratheon hesitantly, bending to retrieve Actaeon’s stick from the ground and throwing it for him. “Everyone must do so.” He eyed his muddied boots for a moment and then turned his face up to the heavens. “She is a—she is a beautiful creature.”

            “Is that all! You can speak of her in that measured way, as simply a ‘beautiful creature’—only something to catch the eye. And here I thought you held a little tenderness for her, sir.” Mr Baratheon stiffened. “‘Beautiful creature’ indeed! Do you speak of her as you would of a horse or a dog?”

            Mr Baratheon’s eyes glowed like red embers.

            “Davos,” he said through gritted teeth, “before you speak so, you should remember that not all are as free to express what they feel as you are. Let us talk of something else.”

            For although his heart leaped up, as at a trumpet-call, to every word that Davos Seaworth had said, he would not be forced into any expression of what he felt towards Sansa. He was no mocking-bird of praise to try, because another extolled what he reverenced and passionately loved, to outdo him in laudation. So he turned to some of the dry matters of business that lay between Davos and himself, as land agent and master of the house. After a little while they parted ways: Davos for the lower fields and Mr Baratheon for Storms End.

            Once home and in drier clothes, Mr Baratheon took up his correspondence and the agricultural plans Davos had given him, with an air of determination, as if resolved to dedicate the rest of his day to matters of estate business. To say that this resolution proved more difficult than Stannis Baratheon anticipated would have been a disservice to the man: for he was fully aware that to _not_ think of Sansa Stark was a task very akin to him being able to listen to anything his cousin Robert said without even the smallest iota of irritation; that is to say, it was nigh on impossible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's early days guys so the misery is still strong * _ ,* They are in each others thoughts though... 
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- So Davos' horse (Betha) is a Cleveland Bay, which is an old Yorkshire breed. The Queen apparently uses them when she's out and about in her fancy carriage during special processions. Have a look at google images if you fancy it - very pretty horses, and they're from the area of England this story is set so I thought they'd be an appropriate horse to include :) 
> 
> \- Also, previously I mentioned that Stannis has a black horse called Fury - I've just gone back to add that he's a Friesian, just because I thought I might as well. A very beautiful, strong, moody looking breed that I thought would suit Stannis quite well. I did think about giving him a black Thoroughbred but then I thought he'd probably think having a racehorse type would be an unnecessary extravagance. So Friesian it is - give them a google. Though I should say that I don't think Stannis would let Fury have such a dramatic, swooshy mane as some of those pics show - he'd keep his stallion neat and proper ;) 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this latest chapter, as always, reviews are very much apprecited!
> 
> Cappy x


	13. Most Expressive Blue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay with this latest chapter - been at bit busy with work and getting all my books together for uni. But I'm back! Hope you guys missed me and our angsty pair ;) Thank you for the lovely reviews, and I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

As the days turned into weeks, Sansa remained peaceably at home, in the quiet enjoyment of liberty and rest. When the weather permitted, Sansa would often sit long hours upon the moors, listening out for the wind to rise up upon the ether, creating a singular, wild, low, rushing sound. Then, through the power of make-believe, Sansa would transport herself to the middle of a vast ocean: the perpetual motion of waves against a pebbly shore replacing the sound of the wind through heather and gorse. She was oddly soothed by this watery fantasy, without really knowing how or why. Listlessly, she would spend her mornings there, on the ground, her hands clasped round her knees with her dog, Lady, by her side, while her mother did small errands about Winterfell, and her father visited his parishioners. Her brothers and sister, chasing each other amongst the heather, would pass and repass her, and wonder in whispers what she could find to look at so long, day after day.

            “What’s wrong with Sansa?” asked little Rickon one day.

            “Yes,” added Bran thoughtfully. “She’s been out of sorts ever since she got back. Why is she so moped?”

            “Never you mind!” cautioned Arya in a hushed voice, before scampering off after Lady; the now almost fully-grown dog had started to meander amongst the bushes, her pale grey body bright against the flora and fauna.

            One morning, just after breakfast, Sansa, Arya, and their mother sat together quietly in the parlour: it was the end of April, yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain beat fast against the windowpanes. Her younger brothers were elsewhere in the house: Bran was practising his music in the drawing room and Rickon was in the kitchen badgering Cook for a treat. Sansa heard the front-door open, and her father pass out. Looking through the window, she saw him traverse the front garden. He took the way over the misty moors in the direction of New Castle Lodge; old Mr Manderly had been asking for him, wishing to catch up, as premier men of the district are wont to do.

            The women of the Stark household were each engrossed in their own individual occupations: at a small table, Mrs Stark refashioned an old bonnet with new trimmings of red and blue ribbon; on the sofa, Arya sat reading _The Three Musketeers_ , the edition a recent translation of the original French; next to her, Sansa was also reading, with Lady dozing at her feet. Though in Sansa’s case, she favoured poetry over prose in the form of Caroline Norton’s _The Sorrows of Rosalie: A Tale with Other Poems_. As she flicked through this well-worn volume, Sansa lingered on an old favourite. Her eyes remained fixed on it, long after she had finished reading:

 

_I do not love thee!—no! I do not love thee!_

_And yet when thou art absent I am sad;_

_And envy even the bright blue sky above thee,_

_Whose quiet stars may see thee and be glad._

_I do not love thee!—yet, I know not why,_

_Whate’er thou dost seems still well done, to me:_

_And often in my solitude I sigh_

_That those I do love are not more like thee!_

_I do not love thee!—yet, when thou art gone,_

_I hate the sound (though those who speak be dear)_

_Which breaks the lingering echo of the tone_

_Thy voice of music leaves upon my ear._

_I do not love thee!—yet thy speaking eyes,_

_With their deep, bright, and most expressive blue,_

_Between me and the midnight heaven arise,_

_Oftener than any eyes I ever knew._

_I know I do not love thee! yet, alas!_

_Others will scarcely trust my candid heart;_

_And oft I catch them smiling as they pass,_

_Because they see me gazing where thou art._

 

            “I beg your pardon, Miss Sansa,” interrupted a voice near the parlour door; Sansa looked up suddenly and turned in her seat: it was Louise. “A letter has just arrived for you.” The maid swiftly handed her the letter, bobbed a curtsy and then exited the parlour.

            The address was written in an enthusiastic and feminine hand, with curling flicks and swooping strokes; turning it over, Sansa saw a red seal stamped with a rearing stag with a small “B” underneath it. Her mother and sister did not pay her much mind as she quickly tore it open; they were too much engaged with their own occupations. As she finished reading, Sansa’s face went very pale; then silently putting it into Arya’s hands, she left the room. Her sister watched her retreating form quizzically, and then began reading:

 

            _Dearest Miss Stark,_

_I hope this letter finds you well and your relation much recovered. I have been reading quite a lot and have been practicing my arithmetic diligently. However, if I am ever to become the next Elizabeth Barrett Browning or Ada Lovelace I think you had better come back soon. Oh Miss Stark, I have missed you terribly! Though, I believe I have kept my promise to you and have tried to be good for Mrs Cressen and Patches—but sometimes I find myself annoyed with them because everything seems so very dull at Storms End, without you here. Is that very wicked of me, Miss Stark?_

_I suppose one thing, which hasn’t been dreadfully dull, is Uncle Renly being here. Did you know papa had kept him hidden in the house for WEEKS? And I never knew it! Papa says it was because he was very ill, so ill that he had to be kept away from people. Poor Uncle Renly! He must be much better than he was though, because yesterday he spent some of the morning sitting in a lawn chair outside while I played with Actaeon. Today Mr Loras Tyrell has come to visit—do you remember him? His was one of pretty Miss Tyrell’s brothers. Uncle Renly seemed very cheered to see him._

_Poor papa has been very low recently and Davos says he has been overworking himself. I would not like to see dear papa become ill—which is what Mrs Cressen said might happen if he carries on like he is. He always seems so much happier when you are around, Miss Stark. So I think you must come back at your earliest convenience, as long as your relation is recovered and you are no longer needed at home. Is it terribly selfish of me to wish that you would be with us as soon as tomorrow? Mrs Cressen says you need only ask and we will send papa’s post chaise for you and I will make sure they have the fastest horses._

_Your devoted pupil and friend,_

_Shireen Baratheon_

 

            Arya rose from her seat, and followed her sister upstairs into their room. There she found Sansa hastily putting on her bonnet, shedding tears all the time, and her hands trembling so that she could hardly tie the strings.

            “I—I thought I might go for a walk,” she choked out with false cheer.

            “Don’t be stupid, Sansa! It’s clearly going to rain,” chastised Arya.

            “No, no. It will not rain.”

            “You always say that and then it always does!” She huffed out a sigh and then, reigning in her annoyance, Arya moved towards her sister and wrapped her in a tight embrace.

            “I—I s—suppose I must go back,” stammered Sansa against Arya’s shoulder. “For Shireen’s sake, at least. Oh, I—I do hope Mr Baratheon isn’t ill! Though per—perhaps he will be angry if I return? What do you think, Arya?”

            Her sister leaned back so as to better look at her. “I think,” she began, giving Sansa a slightly teasing look; “that your Mr Baratheon is still very much in love with you, so will be _overjoyed_ to have you back.”

            Sansa flushed and then stepped out of their embrace. She went to retrieve a pretty embroidered handkerchief from a bedside drawer and promptly began wiping away her tears; her back turned away from her sister.

            “You don’t believe me, do you? Well, you should!” asserted Arya hotly. She put her hands on her hips and frowned: “do you not want to go back? Is that it?”

            Sansa span round to face her. “Oh, of course I do! That’s the problem!”

            Arya eyed her critically and then smiled slyly. “You love him, don’t you? All your moping has been for him! And you think he doesn’t care for you anymore, but he does—he does!”

            “That’s not true!” replied Sansa, causing Arya to quirk a dark eyebrow. “You don’t know the half of it, Arya: you do not know him; you do not know what has passed between us. He no longer holds a regard for me—I’m sure of it.”

            “Hmm, we’ll see.”

            It was with many hugs and kisses, as well as a wrapped up bundle of lemon cakes from her mother, that Sansa once again departed Winterfell parsonage for Storms End. She tried to allow the post chaise’s steady rocking motion to quell her nervous state; but alas, her worries could not be quietened. Mrs Cressen will smile you a calm welcome, to be sure, thought Sansa; and little Shireen will clap her hands and jump to see you: but you know very well you are thinking of another than they; and that he is not thinking of you. Sansa slumped against the plush leather-backed seat; she gazed out the window, squinting slightly at the soft morning light. She then heaved a heavy sigh.

            Little Shireen was indeed half wild with delight when she saw her dear Miss Stark exiting the carriage. Mrs Cressen received Sansa with her usual plain friendliness. Justine, the maidservant, smiled; and even Miss Patchett bid her a “good afternoon” with glee. This was very pleasant: there is no happiness like that of being loved by your fellow-creatures, and feeling that your presence is an addition to their comfort. Tea was swiftly called for and delivered into the housekeeper’s room. Sansa held fast her parcel of lemon cakes, intending them to be a sweet little accompaniment to their tea.

            When tea was over and Mrs Cressen had taken her knitting, Sansa assumed a low seat near her; Shireen, kneeling on the carpet, nestled close up to Sansa, with Miss Patchett dozing softly in a nearby chair. At some point, Actaeon found his way to their little group, and laying down at Sansa’s feet, rested his grey head upon Shirreen’s lap; which prompted the little girl to gently stroke his fur and coo at him adoringly. A sense of mutual affection seemed to surround them all with a ring of golden peace. Yet, Sansa could not help pondering Mr Baratheon’s absence from this scene.

            At that very moment, as if summoned, Mr Baratheon entered the room unannounced. His eyes locked onto her form and he abruptly halted by the door. Momentarily, he seemed to take pleasure in just gazing at her and the spectacle of a group so amicable. Yet, all too quickly, feeling their eyes on him, Mr Baratheon tore away his gaze. He then began to glance about the room quite distractedly; what he was searching for, neither he, nor his observers could possibly ascertain. Sansa looked with an anxious eye at Mr Baratheon while he was thus occupied. His fine figure yet bore him above the common height of men; it was of the same strong and stalwart contour as ever: his bearing still erect, his hair was still raven-black; not by any sorrow could his athletic strength be quelled, or his vigorous prime be blighted; and yet, his face looked pale and careworn, as if indicative of a great and deep set melancholy.

            What does it mean? thought Sansa: I did not think I should tremble in this way when I saw him—or lose my voice or the power of motion in his presence. Luckily for Sansa, Mrs Cressen chose that moment to break this strange stillness, which had descended upon them.

            “Oh, Mr Baratheon! What a pleasure it is to see you—and on such a day as this, with our dear Miss Stark returned to us at last,” smiled the good lady. “Miss Stark looks well, does she not, sir? That moorland air no doubt suits her.”

            His stormy blue eyes darted to Sansa’s flushed face.

            “Yes,” he murmured. The wintry frost-bound look of care had left Mr Baratheon’s face, as if some soft summer gale had blown all anxiety away from his mind; and, though his mouth was as much compressed as before, his eyes smiled out benignly on Sansa. Then, all at once, the face was cloudy once more. He cleared his throat awkwardly, and looked at his daughter; “Shireen has been eager for your return, Miss Stark.”

            “And I am so glad that she is now back!” chirped the little girl delightedly. “So is Actaeon, I think,” she continued, giving the deerhound a fond scratch behind the ears. “Aren’t you happy to see Miss Stark again, papa?”

            Mr Baratheon inhaled sharply; one of his hands flexed nervously as he released his breath. At length he spoke in a solemn and low voice: “We are all pleased to have you back with us, Miss Stark.”

            “Thank you, Mr Baratheon—for your kindness,” replied Sansa, somewhat shakily. Then suddenly, an impulse held her fast, and she said—or something in her said for her, and in spite of her:

            “I am strangely glad to get back to you.”

            Mr Baratheon looked at her; his gaze was intense and penetrative. He frowned and then hastily departed the room, without so much as a “good evening.” A sense of change, of perplexity and disappointment, overpowered Sansa as she watched him go. She did not see him at all the following day, until the evening when she was summoned with Shireen and Mrs Cressen to the drawing room.

            Mr Baratheon sat in his usual chair, staring moodily at the softly flaming hearth. To his left, on a comfortable looking sofa, sat two gentlemen: Mr Renly Baratheon and Mr Loras Tyrell, who rose politely from their seats upon Sansa’s entrance. Mrs Cressen took a seat in a far corner, intent on finishing her knitting; Shireen went to sit next to her uncle, who smiled at her fondly; and Sansa hesitantly took the seat opposite Mr Baratheon’s.

            “Miss Stark, it is a pleasure to see you again,” remarked Mr Tyrell, settling himself back against a plush cushion; a lazy smile formed upon his lips, enhancing his already golden good looks.

            “Yes, you look very well this evening, Miss Stark,” observed the younger Mr Baratheon; “I myself am mightily glad to make your proper acquaintance.” Though much recovered, Renly Baratheon still bore the appearance of a weak invalid; yet despite this, he smiled warmly at Sansa, exuding an effortless charm that was so at odds with the reticent disposition of his elder brother.

            Shireen, Mr Tyrell and Renly Baratheon soon began to chat away merrily. By contrast, Mr Baratheon remained silent, with Sansa watching him anxiously. The little trio primarily discussed the two gentlemen’s plans to travel to Italy, in hopes that some sea air and the Mediterranean climate might further aid Renly in his recovery. They planned to start their tour in Genoa, going down the coast to Pisa, and then inland to Florence where they would meet a friend of Mr Tyrell’s eldest brother: a Mr Oberyn Martell.

            “I particularly want to see Michelangelo’s _David_ , I believe it stands outside the Palazzo Vecchio,” said an enthusiastic Mr Tyrell. “Though I know Margaery would think me very remiss if we didn’t see any opera! Willas says Oberyn recommends the Teatro della Pergola.” His friend smiled indulgently at him, and then turned to Sansa.

            “And what is your opinion, Miss Stark? What should take precedence during our stay in Florence: art or music?”

            Sansa drew her gaze away from Renly’s elder brother, and smiled sheepishly; “I am sorry to disappoint you, Mr Baratheon, but I am afraid I do not have a ready opinion.”

            The young gentleman smirked and glanced at his brother; “I suspect you are almost entirely composed of ready opinions not yet shared. But come, come: you have barely spoken all night! Indulge me a little.”

            “Do not make the presumption that Miss Stark will _indulge_ you in your inane chatter; you think her mild and docile, but I can assure you that that is not so,” interjected Mr Baratheon bitterly. The moment he had done so, he could have bitten his tongue out. What was he? And why should he stab at her in this way? How sullen he was tonight; possessed by ill humour at being detained so long from her; irritated by Renly and Loras’ easy charm, because he recognised it as a trait he distinctly lacked; now ill-tempered because he had been unable to cope, with a light heart, against his brother who was trying, by gay and careless speeches, to make the evening pass pleasantly away.

            And then to speak to Sansa as he had done! She did not get up and leave the room, though perhaps it would have been easier on him if she had. Instead, she sat quite still, after the first momentary glance of grieved surprise, that made her eyes look like some child’s who has met with an unexpected rebuff; they slowly dilated into mournful, reproachful sadness; and then they fell, and she did not speak again. But he could not help looking at her, and he saw a sigh tremble over her body, as if she quivered in some unwonted chill.

            For the rest of the evening Mr Baratheon gave short, sharp answers; he was uneasy and cross, unable to discern between jest and earnest; anxious only for a look, a word of hers, before which to prostate himself in penitent humility. But she neither looked nor spoke. Her round taper fingers flew in and out of the sewing she had suddenly produced, as steadily and swiftly as if that were the business of her life. She could not care for him, he thought, or else the passionate fervour of his wish would have forced her to raise those eyes, if but for an instant, to read the late repentance in his.

            In due course, Renly and Mr Tyrell rose from their seats with the intention to retire to their rooms, as the former was still easily fatigued; at this point in the evening, Shireen had already been ushered to bed by Mrs Cressen. The gentlemen swiftly spoke their apologetic “good nights” and then exited to drawing room. As they departed, Mr Tyrell muttered forth a little condemnation of Mr Baratheon:

            “I never saw a fellow as dour as your brother, Renly. He can’t bear a word; a jest of any kind. Everything seems to touch on some soreness of his high dignity.”

            Now alone with Mr Baratheon, Sansa felt all at once very uneasy; she rose from her seat, and began silently to fold up her work. The long seams were heavy, and had an unusual weight in her languid arms. The round lines in her face took a lengthened, straighter form, and her whole appearance was that of one who had gone through a day of great fatigue. Mr Baratheon watched her silently, imploring her to look at him with his dark eyes.

            “Mr Baratheon,” she began, turning to face him, a slight tremor evident in her voice. “I would like to say that I am—that is, I feel—I feel that I that must—”

            “Surely you and I are beyond speaking when words are clearly not enough,” interjected Mr Baratheon; he spoke with quiet distinctness, a pained look marring his usually stern visage. He then rose from his seat and abruptly left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my god, Stannis...why are you such an awkward man??? *sighs* At least they're back together though, right? ;)
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton (1808-1877) was an English social reformer and author active in the early and mid nineteenth century. She published four volumes of verses which reflected her intense Romantic imagination and traumatic personal experience. Her poetry appeared in numerous anthologies during the nineteenth century. Her first collections of poems, 'The Sorrows of Rosalie,' was published in 1829, two years after her unhappy marriage to George Chapple Norton began. She's probably better known now for the scandal involving her leaving her abusive husband, his subsequent accusations directed at the then Prime minister, Lord Melbourne, her struggles to gain custody of her children, and her political activity aimed at reforming the rights of married and divorced women. Give her a google, very interesting. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this latest chapter :) As always, reviews are very much appreciated! 
> 
> Cappy x


	14. Fever and Anguish

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the lovely reviews :) I literally stayed up till 3am last night writing this latest chapter because I got so into it that I lost track of time! And it's almost 2am as I'm posting this now...I know, I know, sleep is important and I WILL sleep, but first I gotta post this, because, boy oh boy, this is an emotional one! Buckle up guys! ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

For Sansa, to be back at Storms End was a pleasure mixed with excessive pain. Day after day slipped by without so much as a glimpse of Mr Baratheon: except occasionally in the evenings, when Renly felt up to sitting for an hour or two; so a little conversation was offered him in the form of Sansa, Mrs Cressen and Shireen; in addition to his dear friend Mr Tyrell, and a rather taciturn Mr Baratheon. Indeed, during those evenings the master of Storms Ends barely said a word; and instead sat moodily in his chair, his face turned away from the other occupants of the room. Sansa used to look at Mr Baratheon’s face to see if it were sad or fierce; but could not remember a time when it had been so uniformly clear of any emotion whatsoever.

            It seemed to Sansa a long time to go without so much as an encounter on the stairwell or a chance meeting in the grounds: and, as she was often out with her precocious pupil, of course hopes would keep rising, and disappointments would ensue; and then Sansa would say to her own heart, here is a convincing proof that he does not care for you. If only he thought _half_ as much about you as you do about him, he would have contrived to meet you many times, as he used to, ere this: you must know that. Therefore, have done with this nonsense: you have no ground for hope: dismiss, at once, these hurtful thoughts and foolish wishes from your mind, and turn to your duty.

            But still, she would think of him: Sansa cherished his image in her mind and treasured every word, look, and gesture that her memory could retain; and she continued to brood over his excellences and his peculiarities, and, in fact, all she had seen, heard, or imagined concerning him. “It’s you—you rare, unearthly thing,” and “listen to me: do not go” —those words still rang in Sansa’s ear and now rested on her heart: they were her secret solace and support. And yet, what a fool you must be, said Sansa’s head to her heart; or her sterner to her softer self; how could you ever dream that he would still care for you? What grounds have you for such a hope—or that he will see you outside of the drawing-room, or give himself any trouble about you—or even think of you again? What grounds—and then Hope set before Sansa his expressions of love and longing, and repeated the words she had begun to so faithfully treasure in her memory.

            At last she saw him. He came suddenly upon her as Sansa was crossing a field in returning from an afternoon visit to the post-office in Felwood. She started at his abrupt appearance, and for a moment they just stared at one another; each brimming with restrained emotion.

            “Good afternoon, Miss Stark,” he said at length.

            Mr Baratheon’s whole demeanour was one of uneasiness, and his appearance bore the effects of a rather brisk walk on a breezy May day: his raven-black hair was wind swept; his cravat and tailcoat were in slight disarray; and it would not have been a stretch of the imagination to believe that the flush of his cheeks was the result of this exertion.

            “Good afternoon, sir,” replied Sansa, quite stunned.

            “I had to get out of the house,” he said, by way of an explanation; “my brother and Mr Tyrell—” He paused, then continued bitterly: “I do not have the _talent_ of conversing easily with people who abscond the serious in favour of the ridiculous.” He looked at Sansa imploringly, and then averted his gaze from her.

            Wishing to set him at ease, Sansa hurried out a response: “I often find my brothers quite vexing at times—indeed, I used to find my sister, Arya, excessively so!” She hesitated a moment. “Though you may not often see to eye to eye, no doubt it will grieve you very much to see your brother go.”

            “Yes, and it will grieve my purse also,” he said derisively. But then, as if acknowledging the truth of her words, he sighed dejectedly, and said: “He will have the best care, I am sure.”

            Sansa nodded: “Mr Tyrell seems very devoted to your brother.”

            “Yes,” he concurred. “Damned difficult to get a hold of though; I only went to that blasted party of Penrose’s in search of him.” His countenance became suddenly stormy and Sansa almost hesitated in venturing closer to him.

            “Are you and Mr Tyrell sure it is safe for Mr Renly to travel?” pondered Sansa, as they fell into step with one another. “Is Mr Clegane—”

            “He has been run off,” interrupted Mr Baratheon, glancing at her briefly and then fixing his gaze straight ahead. “I believe his brother had some hand in it. I made sure to know all the particulars; I had to be absolutely certain he would no longer be a danger to Renly.”

            Sansa regarded him with unrestrained admiration, and with a measure of self-reproach, she said: “I was wrong to ever doubt your character, Mr Baratheon, or accuse you like I did. You are a very good brother; a very good _man_.”

            They stopped then, as they reached the iron wrought gates of Storms End. Mr Baratheon looked down at her from his great height in astonishment, and then took a cautious step towards her. The wind began to pick up around them, blowing through the ancient trees; whispering through the laurel-walk.

            “We used to play Renly the Knight,” he began softly: “give me a mission, Stannis, he’d say. So I’d send him with a message to mother about the tea, or to get Harbert to ready my horse.” He shook his head forlornly. “No, brother. Give me a noble mission.” He paused, looking at her sadly. “That’s all he ever wanted.”

            “You think you’ve failed him but you haven’t!” asserted Sansa with utter sincerity and a firm belief in the man stood before her.

           Mr Baratheon shook his head again and heaved a deep, dejected sigh; his eyes sought hers searchingly—desperately—until they dropped to her lips. He moved a fraction closer, seeking comfort in her close proximity. Sansa held her breath as she watched, and then felt, Mr Baratheon’s hand cautiously rise to softly touch a wayward flame of hair; his fingertips brushed against her temple as he did so. He seemed to be on the precipice of gently pressing his lips to hers; his hand, still hovering by her face, was trembling slightly with the anticipation of at last taking her in his arms. Mr Baratheon leaned in so that his face was but a hairsbreadth away from hers. Yet something in him made him abruptly recoil away from Sansa, as if burned.

            “Forgive me,” he choked out. He meant to leave her calmly, but instead walked on through the gates, and up to the house, so fast that Sansa could hardly have overtaken him had she tried.

            He had not breathed a word of love, and up until that point, had not dropped one hint of tenderness or affection, and yet Sansa had been supremely happy. To be near him, to hear him talk as he did; and to feel that he thought her worthy to be spoken to—capable of understanding and duly appreciating such discourse—had been enough to make Sansa forget his previous icy treatment of her. How fleeting that happiness had been.

            Tears now dimmed Sansa’s eyes as she turned to look desolately across at Storms End—tears of disappointment and hopelessness: ashamed of them, Sansa tried to wipe her tears away. But alas, they came thick and fast. She longed to seek the retirement of her room, or some sequestered nook in the grounds, so that she might attempt to exorcise this profound sadness. For her heart felt tight in her chest as she recalled the way Mr Baratheon shrank away from her; surely at the remembrance of what a horrid, thoughtless fool she had been on that fateful evening in April.

            Hastily, Sansa sought the orchard: driven to its shelter by the wind, which all day had blown strong and full from the south; without, however, bringing a speck of rain. Instead of subsiding, as afternoon became evening, it seemed to augment its rush and deepen its roar: the trees blew steadfastly one way, never writhing round, and scarcely tossing back their boughs once in an hour; so continuous was the strain bending their branchy heads northward—the clouds drifted from pole to pole, fast following, mass on mass: no glimpse of blue sky had been visible that late spring day.

            It was not without a certain wild pleasure that she ran before the wind, delivering her trouble of mind up to the measureless air-torrent thundering through space. However, Sansa was now weeping wildly as she hurried along her solitary way: fast, fast she went like one delirious. She then halted suddenly, and looked up at the sky: the moon had appeared momentarily between two grey, ominous clouds; it seemed to throw on Sansa one bewildered, dreary glance, and then instantly buried itself again in the deep drift of cloud. The wind fell, for a second, round Storms End; but far away over wood and water, poured a wild, melancholy wail: it was sad to listen to, so Sansa ran off again; the rain coming down fast on the gale.

            Descending the laurel-walk, she faced the ancient horse chestnut tree—the very setting of Mr Baratheon’s ill-fated proposal. Now never to be renewed, thought Sansa sorrowfully. The rain rushed down. The horse chestnut writhed and groaned; while wind roared in the laurel-walk, and came sweeping over her. A live spark leapt out of a cloud, and there was a crack, a crash, and a close rattling peal. Soaked to the skin, Sansa stood before the tree as if in a trance; as loud as the wind blew, near and deep as the thunder crashed, fierce and frequent as the lightning gleamed against the rain drenched sky, she would not be moved. A weakness, beginning inwardly, extending to the limbs, then seized Sansa, and she fell: she lay on the ground before the tree, pressing her face to the wet turf.

            “Where is Miss Stark?” asked Mr Baratheon anxiously, as all but her entered the drawing room that evening. His eyes frantically searched their faces for an explanation; a feeling of foreboding had settled itself in his chest the moment he failed to see her familiar and beloved form.

            “Perhaps she is in the library?” answered Mrs Cressen.

            “No, she is not: I’ve just been there. Has anyone seen her since she went to Felwood? Tyrell, Renly, have you seen Miss Stark?”

            “I believe I saw her linger about the gates and then run off in some direction or other. The devil knows which way she went,” replied Mr Tyrell, offhandedly.

            The colour drained from Mr Baratheon’s face; the sound of wind and rain against the windowpanes halting his breath and winding itself tightly around his heart. Springing into action, he darted out of the room, calling out for Pylos to fetch his overcoat. He then ran through the grounds as though the devil were at his heels; the wet ground squelching against the rapid stamp of his boots; his coat tails flapping madly against the onslaught of wind and rain.

            “Sansa! Sansa!” he cried out, again and again. He sprinted like a man possessed; half wild he was with dread at the thought of not finding her.

            At last he saw her, lying before the great horse chestnut; for the moon had opened a blue field in the sky, and rode in it watery bright, illuminating Sansa in its eerie glow. She stirred at the sound of a voice calling her name—a known, loved, treasured voice—that of Stannis Baratheon; and it spoke in pain and woe wildly, desperately, urgently. Swiftly reaching her, Mr Baratheon fell to his knees, and quickly divesting himself of his overcoat, wrapped it around her rain-chilled body. He then slipped one arm under her legs, and another around her trembling back, taking her into the strong, protective sanctuary of his arms. Sansa looked at him with dazzled eyes and whispered his name through frozen lips before succumbing once more to cold and fatigue.

            She lay like one dead on Mr Baratheon’s shoulder; her face pale and upturned, with closed eyes, still and sad as marble; though tears welled out of the long entanglement of eyelashes, and dropped down, only to be washed away by the rain. Rising, Mr Baratheon carried her back up to the house without a moment’s delay. He bore Sansa into the entrance hall of Storms End, cradling her in his arms protectively as servants and occupants alike rushed to meet him and offer their assistance. Instinctively, Mr Baratheon tightened his hold on her; he was loath to part with Sansa to the likes of Mr Tyrell, or young Devan Seaworth.

            “She is not hurt—but we must get her warm. She is very chilled. Make a fire up in her room!” ordered Mr Baratheon, already ascending the staircase with measured but hasty steps; Mrs Cressen and Justine were quick at his heels.

            Taking the utmost care, Mr Baratheon laid Sansa down softly on her bed; and looking on her pure white face, the sense of what she was to him came upon him so keenly that he spoke it out in his pain:

            “Oh, Sansa—dearest Sansa! No one can tell what you are to me! Dead—cold as you lie there, you are the only woman I ever loved! Sansa—darling Sansa!”

            Inarticulately as he spoke, kneeling by her, and rather moaning than saying the words, he started up, ashamed of himself, as Mrs Cressen and Justine came in with fresh linens. The maidservant quickly set about making a fire, as the housekeeper began wiping Sansa’s damp brow and divesting her of Mr Baratheon’s overcoat.

            “She must be stripped and chafed all over,” said the master of the house; he then gently turned Sansa to her side and started to unlace her dress until he abruptly halted his actions. “I shall leave you,” he said, looking somewhat shamefaced. “Be sure to make haste, time is of the essence.”

            “She looks very pale—I could almost fancy her dead,” said Justine, looking a good deal alarmed.

            “It is only a fainting-fit.” But all the blood in his body seemed to rush inwards to his heart as he spoke, and he absolutely trembled.

            “I shall leave you,” he said again. Yet he left the room as if weights were tied to every limb that bore him from her. He called for Devan to go fetch Dr Tarly. She should have all possible care, all gentle tendance. But every pulse beat in him as he remembered how she had felt in her arms; every nerve in his body thrilled at the thought of her only to be doused with the cold reminder of the direness of the situation before him.

            Sansa did, indeed, look white and wan, although her senses were beginning to return to her. But the sickly daze of the swoon made her still miserably faint. She was conscious of movement around her, and of Mrs Cressen’s gentle hands undoing the laces of her corset. Yet she could no more have opened her eyes, or spoken to ask after Mr Baratheon, than people who lie in a death-trance can move, or utter a sound.

            “Oh, my dear, you are chilled to the bone!” exclaimed the housekeeper, in a quavering voice. No answer; no sign of recognition; but a faint pink colour returned to Sansa’s lips, although the rest of her face was ashen pale.

            Shireen came hurriedly in, with Miss Patchett close behind her; the nurse’s hands reached out for the little girl, but she slipped out of her grasp. “How is she?” she asked, close to tears. Sansa opened her filmy eyes, and gazed dreamily up at her. “Oh, Miss Stark!”

            “Hush now, child,” cooed Mrs Cressen. Sansa tried to rise, but a soft hand pressed her back down. “Go with Miss Patchett, Shireen. Be a good girl now.”

            Reluctantly, the little girl took the proffered hand of her nurse and left the room; allowing Mrs Cressen and Justine to focus on the task of slipping Sansa into a clean, dry nightgown.

            “She is quite flushed and feverish,” observed Justine quietly.

            Outside of Sansa’s bedchamber, Mr Baratheon paced about in anguish. He had divested himself of his tailcoat; his shirtsleeves had been pushed up to his elbows, so that the strong forearms were revealed; and his black hair had become tousled from the anxious and quaking hand that had run through it numerous times. At least the rain has stopped, he thought dismally.

           “You’ll wear yourself out, brother—do not worry yourself!” said Renly, trying to placate him.

            “Yes,” agreed Mr Tyrell, who had also followed Renly up to the second story gallery. “A day or two a bed will soon set her to rights!”

            At that moment, Dr Tarly bustled up the stairwell and up to Mr Baratheon. “Is she inside?” he asked anxiously, gesturing towards Sansa’s chamber door.

            “Yes,” replied Mr Baratheon, ushering him inside.

            Mrs Cressen and Justine stood in one corner of the room, huddled together worriedly, while Dr Tarly went over to the bed to examine Sansa. Mr Baratheon kept close by him, watching the doctor’s every move as Sansa tossed and turned upon the bed. The young doctor held a hand to her clammy forehead; next he pressed two fingers to her wrist so that he might take her pulse. Dr Tarly then looked up at Mr Baratheon.

            “What is your diagnosis?” he asked urgently.

            “She has a very bad fever; it has taken far more serious hold than I would have expected in one so young, and I fear her lungs have become congested.”

            “Oh, the poor girl!” cried Mrs Cressen.

            Mr Baratheon remained dangerously quiet.

            “Double the number of laudanum drops and I will return as soon as I can,” said Dr Tarly, his words directed at the housekeeper. “There is nothing else I can do for her at present.” He then hurried out of the room, assumedly on to another patient.

            Mr Baratheon heaved out a shaky breath and put his head in his hands. Mrs Cressen and Justine watched him warily. “What can I do?” he said suddenly.

            “Sir?” replied the housekeeper.

            “Give me an occupation, Mrs Cressen, or I shall run mad.”

            “Mr Baratheon, you have done so much already,” said Justine, trying to pacify him; but it was no use, for he glared at her sharply, eyes alight with stinging sorrow.

            “Perhaps she might be easier if a family member were here?” suggested Mrs Cressen tentatively. She moved to wipe Sansa’s brow with a damp cloth, before she set to work administering a few more drops of laudanum.

            “Of course,” conceded Mr Baratheon; “Winterfell is but eight hours away. If I make no stop you may see us early tomorrow morning.” He opened the door and left the room abruptly. He was desperate to make haste, but was stopped in his tracks by his brother and Mr Tyrell.

            “How is she?” inquired Renly, gripping Mr Baratheon’s shoulder.

            “I am to ride to Winterfell, so that she might have her family near her.” He tried to extricate himself from his brother grasp, but Renly held on surprisingly fast. “Release me! I must make haste if I am to deliver them to her by morning.”

            Renly gave his elder brother a stern look. “Stannis, you’ll make yourself ill if you do so!”

            “I don’t care, I don’t care!” growled Mr Baratheon through gritted teeth. “Now release me, damn you!” He looked half wild with frustration and fury, but above all else, heartache for the woman he so dearly loved.

            “Loras will go,” his brother said decisively, turning to his friend; “won’t you Loras? His horse is one of Willas’ thoroughbreds, you know.”

            “Yes,” affirmed Mr Tyrell, nodding earnestly; “Clover is as fast as any horse in the Grand National. If you allow it, sir, I shall ready myself directly.”

            Mr Baratheon’s stormy eyes darted from his brother to Mr Tyrell sceptically. “Very well,” he said after a brief, but tense moment. “But be damn quick about it!” Mr Tyrell nodded and then dashed off, down the stairwell.

            “Loras is a fine rider, Stannis,” Renly said, his hand still firm against his brother’s shoulder. “You need not worry.”

            Mr Baratheon shot him an incredulous glare and shook off his hand.

            “Need not worry? Need not worry, Renly!” He ran a shaky hand through his hair fitfully, then turned, and leant heavily against the ledge of a windowsill; he watched with a heavy brow as Loras Tyrell mounted his horse down below. The young man raised his head to the house, and catching its master’s eye, gave him a firm nod and then spurred his horse violently forward. Mr Baratheon felt a hand upon his back as he released a shuddering breath.

            “Perhaps you should go to her?”

            “She cannot want me by her side, Renly.”

            “You are a bigger blockhead than I gave you credit for if you truly believe that,” replied his brother, giving his taunt arm squeeze; it was an attempt at comfort, though it proved futile.

            “I don’t know what I’ll do—if—if she should—if I should lose her…” Stannis Baratheon’s voice was that of a broken man.

            “Go to her, Stannis. Go to her.”

            Mr Baratheon sucked in a shaky breath and then steeled himself, his posture becoming firm and rigid once more. Purposefully, he entered Sansa’s chamber. Her eyes glittered with fever as she lay on the bed; those two jewels of shining blue, those twin aquamarines, as well as the luxuriant flame of her hair were the only colours distinguishable against the snowy bedclothes: Sansa’s skin was paper white. Mr Baratheon inched closer into the room; Mrs Cressen had pulled a chair up to her bedside and was diligently wiping her brow, while Justine stood fearfully at the end of the bed.

            “How is she?” he asked quietly.

            Their silence was worse than any utterance.

            “Leave us.” His voice came out as a hoarse whisper.

            The two women looked at him questioningly, but did as they were bid; Mrs Cressen rose creakily from her seat and wordlessly pressed the now warm, damp cloth into Mr Baratheon’s hand: a silent instruction. He nodded with understanding, but did not meet the old woman’s eyes. No, his gaze was held firmly on Sansa’s pale and restless form. By now, Storms End stood in virtual darkness with only a dim light issuing from this upper chamber. Mr Baratheon’s eyes were red from watching, yet he diligently kept guard over her, wiping her temples and searching her face for any change, or sign of distress.

            In due course, Dr Tarly returned, and taking Sansa’s pulse, turned to look at Mr Baratheon anxiously. The room was still; all that could be heard were Sansa’s deep, wheezing breaths. The two men seemed to hold onto one another’s gaze for what seemed like an eternity, but was in fact only seconds. Time seemed to start up again when Dr Tarly began putting on his coat; Mr Baratheon looked at him fearfully.

            “I must fetch more laudanum,” he explained. “I cannot pretend, Mr Baratheon, that Miss Stark’s condition is not very serious. All we can do now is wait: the fever is reaching its crisis. Nevertheless, I think you should prepare yourself. I will return shortly.”

            Dr Tarly left the room. One of the candles on the dresser reached the end of its wick, creating an eerie shadow in the far left corner of the chamber. Slowly, Mr Baratheon inched closer towards Sansa; he shifted his chair nearer; he leant his arms on the soft, downy mattress. When he spoke, his tone was very practical:

            “Sansa, Sansa, please try—”

            Then suddenly, almost unconsciously, Mr Baratheon started to heave with dry sobs. They were full of anguish and heartbreak, and all the more painful for being tearless.

            “Sansa, please, please try—I cannot—I cannot do without you. I have tried to bear everything else—I will try—I will do better—but please, dearest, beloved Sansa, do not leave me…” He let his head drop to his chest and allowed the tears to fall. Then, gulping for breath, Mr Baratheon took Sansa’s hand in his and began kissing it, again and again. “I love you, I love you,” he wept brokenly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...there you have it. Special shout out to the 1995 and 2008 adaptations of Sense and Sensibility for this one ;)
> 
> (Tommy forgive me) 
> 
> As always, reviews are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	15. Still Steadfast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys, sorry for the delay on this one! Just been settling into my new term at uni - so I've been a bit busy. 
> 
> Anyway, thank you for all the lovely reviews - special thanks to Framboise who made a lovely photoset for this fic! Check it out here:
> 
> https://framboise-fics.tumblr.com/post/165720306097/stannis-x-sansa-fic-rec-at-last-he-saw-her
> 
> I hope you enjoy this new chapter :)

Morning arrived with a shimmer of golden light on the rim of the horizon. Time had worn on, and spring matured. The surface of England was pleasant: her fields had grown green, her hills fresh, and her gardens blooming. Somewhere, not too far away, a lark’s clear untroubled song could be heard warbling through the laurel walk.

            Dr Tarly was slumped in a chair by the now extinguished fire, sleeping on peaceably despite the discomfort of his position and the flourishing sounds of daybreak. Yet the ever faithful and ever diligent Stannis Baratheon was immediately roused by the exuberant birdsong, and soon began to rise with some difficulty from his place at Sansa’s side. Prior to waking, he had sat bent at the waist, his head partially cushioned by one folded arm; with his free appendage outstretched, its hand firmly clasping Sansa’s. It was with some reluctance that Mr Baratheon released her hand. Now standing over her, he rubbed his tired eyes back into wakefulness and ran a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. For a moment or two he regarded Sansa’s still, paper white form and heaved a sort of shuddering sigh.

            Life had never held much joy in it for Stannis Baratheon. The untimely death of his parents when he was still but a boy strengthened in him an already burgeoning solemnity. A family excursion to Whitby had brought with it tragedy in the form of the wrecking of a paddle steamer Steffon and Cassana Baratheon had been aboard; the ship, _Windproud_ , meant only for day trips along the North Riding coast, had run aground on Shipbreaker Bay, a reef about a mile east of Whitby, during a full south westerly gale. The tempestuous conditions made any hope of a swift rescue extremely difficult, but lifeboats from Whitby and Scarborough had attempted to close in on the wreck. Over the next three days, the Baratheon brothers had fearfully watched the on-going rescue mission from their bedchamber window, at The White Hart Inn. Some of those who had attempted to swim to safety in the raging seas were rescued, though many were lost; Mr and Mrs Baratheon were two such lost souls.

            From then on Stannis Baratheon would have no youth; his body was fourteen years of age, but his soul was now thirty. The two orphans were swiftly taken in by their Kingsley Baratheon cousins and promptly placed in their London townhouse on Harley Street; they were to be tutored alongside Mr Robert until Stannis reached his majority.

            For a short time, the young Mr Baratheon, feeling ill-equipped to deal with his brother’s and his own grief, sought in his cousin all the reassurances and security of an elder brother. And had Robert acknowledged this attempt at a fraternal accord between them, then perhaps some buoyancy of character in Stannis Baratheon might have been salvaged. But alas, by the time he was one-and-twenty Mr Baratheon found himself wondering why people ever laughed, and was suspicious of those who seemed perpetually merry.

            Poetry barely existed for Mr Baratheon, either in literature or in life; its best effusions were to him mere rant and jargon. As he steadfastly believed he did not possess poetic imagination himself, Mr Baratheon considered it a most superfluous quality in others. Painters and musicians he could tolerate, and even encourage, because he could relish the results of their art; he could see the charm of a fine picture, and feel the pleasure of good music; but a poet—and yet now, as passion glowed in his chest at the sight of Sansa Stark, as love struggled for its release, Mr Baratheon was struck by the realisation that he had become that quiet poet he had previously scorned; crafting together romantic constructions of language so as to better describe her beauty, her manner, her grace—yet always, in his eyes, falling short of true accuracy.

            Newly returned to Storms End, Sansa had appeared to Mr Baratheon increasingly and painfully lovely. It had not seemed possible, yet she had somehow grown even more beautiful thanks to her time amongst gorse and heath-blossom. A fine rose, not deep but delicate, would now often open on her cheek when she looked upon him. Her eyes, always lustrous, clear, and speaking, uttered now a language he could not render. Her hair had always been autumn red and fine as silk, her neck was always fair, lithe, and elegant; but both now held a new charm. Even as pale and still as she lay currently, Sansa’s tresses looked soft as shadow; and the shoulders they fell on wore a goddess grace. Before Mr Baratheon only saw her beauty, now he felt it.

            It was with rather stiff legs that he relocated himself to the window; and drawing back the curtain, he was struck by the iridescent splendour of a brilliant morning. Though, perhaps he should not have been too surprised by such a happenstance, as more often than not tempests have given way the most splendid of days; transforming unruly gales into tranquil breezes, and cloud obstructed skies into serene seas of blue.

            In an attempt to further awaken his senses, Mr Baratheon drew back the curtains and opened the casement before him, if only a little. He breathed in the fresh and fragrant breeze. In vain, he tried to envision all his fear and anguish escaping through that narrow crack; he imagined a dark mist of negativity being promptly caught up on a soft gust of air and transported far, far away. Damn this house, he cursed; in his eyes, misfortune seemed to hang about it like a ghostly shroud, or some persistent rain cloud, forever storming and never abating. This fine weather is a mere pretence, he surmised; blue skies will soon return to grey and I will persevere on just as I have always done. He was abruptly pulled out of this melancholy musing by a quiet noise from behind him: the faintest of whispers.

            “Mr Baratheon,” murmured Sansa. Her eyes were fluttering against the morning light, trying to focus on the straight and familiar line of Mr Baratheon’s back. Her view was soon changed however, when the master of Storms End spun round, with a choked cry at the sound of his name.

            Mr Baratheon stared at her dumbly, remaining stock still as Dr Tarly suddenly awakened, sprung from his seat and rushed to Sansa’s bedside. The young physician promptly began examining his patient; he held a hand to Sansa’s forehead, and then placed two fingers on the pulse point of her delicate wrist. Duly satisfied he then turned to Mr Baratheon, smiled and nodded.

            “The fever has broken.”

            Mr Baratheon exhaled shakily; a look of profound relief had now overtaken his stern visage. He made a move towards her, his dark eyes meeting Sansa’s, which were now trained on his face; alert and vibrant, and clear of the hazy film that had previously cloaked them. Outside, nature appeared in that moment to be as gladsome as Mr Baratheon: the rooks cawed, and birds sang in the brake and copse; but nothing was so merry or so musical as Stannis Baratheon’s own rejoicing heart. He inched closer to her, unsure as to whether she wanted him near or not, though not quite so in control of himself that he was able to keep away. Sansa’s gazed up at him wistfully.

            “Miss Stark,” he rasped. “Miss Stark, I…” He could not find the adequate words to express how profoundly relieved he was, how _happy_ he was; Mr Baratheon was experiencing a flurry of emotions that no description could reach. All at once he wanted to take her in his arms, shower her with kisses and burry his face right where her auburn tresses brushed against her pale neck. But most of all, he wanted to tell Miss Sansa Stark how much he ardently, steadfastly and truly loved her. Stannis Baratheon wanted a great many things but was loath to act upon them, for fear of rejection and ridicule; and, perhaps, also because Dr Tarly was still in the room.

            “I will, uh—take my leave, I think,” said the doctor, looking mildly uncomfortable; Dr Tarly had averted his gaze from the pair and was now fruitlessly attempting to straighten out the creases of his tailcoat. “I advise complete bed rest, Miss Stark, for at least today and tomorrow; light meals—nothing too rich; and gentle exercise as your strength returns—a turn about the room to begin with, then perhaps a brief stroll about the grounds, for instance. Accompanied, of course.” Dr Tarly reached for his leather medicine bag. “I shall leave a bottle of Warburg’s tincture with your housekeeper: it will do much to aid your recuperation, I believe.” The young physician then departed the room, with a clumsy bow and a hurried, red-faced “good day.”

            His departure from Sansa’s chamber was swiftly followed by the sound of carriage wheels upon the gravelled entrance outside. It seemed like only a matter of seconds before there was a rush of harried steps upon the stairwell and along the gallery—clearly audible from Sansa’s room due to their energetic and raucous nature.

            “Is she in here?” spoke a worried and familiar voice. “Is it this one? Tell me you ninny, is it this one here?”

            “Yes, yes! There’s no need to call anyone names, young lady!” replied the rather offended voice of Mr Loras Tyrell.

            Mr Baratheon, his eyes still locked with Sansa’s, made a move towards the door as if to open it. However, before he could reach it, the door was flung open and in dashed Arya Stark looking every inch the wild moorland girl she was.

            “Oh, Sansa!” sighed the younger Miss Stark. Practically collapsing onto the bed, Arya encircled her sister in her arms; not at all concerned by the presence of Mr Baratheon: Mr Tyrell had promptly slunk away in search of Renly, not wishing to spend another second in the company of girl who seemed devoid of even an ounce of decorum. Arya gently took Sansa’s face in her hands and peered at her critically: “I can’t say you look terribly well, but well enough all things considered. I am sorry it’s me and not mother or father; Bran broke his leg falling from the big oak tree in Torrhen’s Green yesterday and Dr Reed was ill with a cold—fancy that, a sick doctor! I’ve never heard of such a thing—so we had to send for Dr Ryswell from Rills instead—and oh, Rickon wouldn’t stop crying! You might have thought he was the one with the broken leg, the way he carried on! Then that silly Tyrell man came saying you were ill; so it was all a bit of a hullabaloo, but here I am.”

            Sansa gave her an amused smile; she was too weak to pull Arya’s hands from her face. “I’m glad you came Arya, but Dr Tarly says I’m out of danger now.”

            “Hmm, yes. It all seems quite anticlimactic now; I had expected to find you on death’s door,” replied her sister, giving Sansa’s cheek a fond pat before releasing her. “I will have to write to mamma and papa letting them know you are on the mend.” She then abruptly straightened out of her slumped state and glanced at Mr Baratheon with narrowed grey eyes: “So, who are you then?”

            Mr Baratheon had moved to stand by the door, feeling the need to remove himself from this intimacy between sisters; yet unwilling to remove himself completely from Sansa’s presence. Taken slightly aback, he frowned and shot Arya a half-hearted glare: “I am Stannis Baratheon, the master of this house.”

            Arya’s eyes widened excitedly and she nodded astutely. “Oh, yes, yes—I see it now, you are just as I pictured! Albeit, less…presentable.” She eyed his lack of tailcoat, unbuttoned waistcoat, loosened cravat, and rolled up sleeves. “Though I won’t hold it against you, sir. Lord knows I’m not one to judge!”

            Arya Stark really was the strangest girl Mr Baratheon had ever beheld; she was so remarkably dissimilar to her sister, in appearance and manner; and yet it was impossible not to acknowledge the close kinship between them. He shifted his weight awkwardly, turned away from the sisters and reached for the doorknob.

            “Mr Baratheon.”

            He glanced back at Sansa expectantly. But as he took in her lightly flushed face, Mr Baratheon felt a sharp stab to his heart: it was a cutting reminder that Sansa Stark was not his care for—nor, he perceived, could she ever be. The result of this train of thought was a building up of moisture in his usually hard and steely eyes.

            “Thank you,” murmured Sansa.

            She observed him for a moment as he swallowed and blinked back at her. Then, facing the door once more, Mr Baratheon nodded and quickly withdrew from the room. Sansa watched him go and sighed forlornly, earning an amused snort from her sister. Then, turning over in bed, Sansa buried her face deep in the pillow, and weakly drew the coverlets close round her, as if to shut out the sun and world. A slight convulsion shook the bed, and a faint sob broke the silence round it. These things did not go unnoticed by her sister.

            For the rest of the day Sansa slept, waking up at opportune intervals for a little sustenance in the form of a cup of tea, one soft cooked egg and dry toast as a late breakfast, and beef broth, feather cake and warm milk for dinner. By the next day, thanks to Arya’s devoted attendance at her beside and Mrs Cressen’s maternal fussing, Sansa was much recovered. That morning, when Justine brought her breakfast, Sansa had eaten with relish: the food was good—void of the feverish flavour that would have poisoned each mouthful, had she still been in the depths of her illness. When the maidservant had left them, Sansa felt comparatively strong and revived: ere long satiety of repose, and desire for action stirred her.

            Thanks to Arya’s assistance, Sansa now sat comfortably in an easy-chair, wrapped in her white dressing gown, gazing steadily out of her chamber window. Her sister was seated a little behind, reading it seemed, but in truth, watching her. A change had suddenly crossed Sansa’s pale, mournful brow, animating its languor; a light shot into her faded eyes, reviving their lustre; she half rose and looked earnestly out. Arya, drawing softly near, glanced over her sister’s shoulder. From this window was visible a man on horseback. The figure was not yet too remote for recognition—it was Mr Baratheon. Just as an intercepting rising ground concealed him from view, the clock struck ten.

            “May I lie down again?” asked Sansa.

            Arya assisted her to bed. Having laid her down and drawn the curtain, she stood listening near. The bed trembled; a suppressed sob stirred the air.          

            “I think I could make a trip downstairs, don’t you Arya?” remarked Sansa the following day.

            Setting down her nearly finished copy of _The Three Musketeers_ , Arya regarded her sister with an arched brow; “Are you sure, Sans?”

            “I am: I feel so very much better today—truly!” She gave Arya a doleful look; “Oh, come now, Arya; you can’t seriously want to stay cooped up in this stuffy old room all day when its so glorious outside?”

            “No one said anything about you going outside!”

            “Since when were you such a stick in the mud?”

            “I am not!”

            “Are too.”

            “Am n—Sansa! Don’t think I don’t know exactly why you want to leave this room.” The two girls glared at each other defiantly for a solid minute until Sansa relented with downcast eyes and reddening cheeks.

            “I just think it’s odd he hasn’t come to see me—not since the day you arrived,” she murmured sadly. “Though perhaps it is not so very strange. After all, he is such a busy and important man; and surely it would be an inconvenience for him to—”

            “Pah! That’s nonsense and you know it!”

            Sansa reddened profusely and lapsed into silence. Then, with renewed enthusiasm, she began pleading with her sister to help her dress so that they might go downstairs. “Just for a little while,” she begged sweetly.

            “ _Fine_ ,” relented Arya grumpily; though secretly she was very pleased to be leaving the comparative monotony of Sansa’s room for the as of yet unexplored first floor. Storms End was unquestionably the finest house Arya had ever been in and she meant to enjoy her brief stay quite thoroughly.

            Arm in arm, Arya and Sansa departed the bedchamber. As soon as they descended the stairwell Mrs Cressen came upon them; the good old lady took Sansa’s hand and shook her white-bonneted head at her.

            “You should have waited for my leave to descend,” she said, though her tone lacked any sincere chastisement. “You still look very pale. Oh you poor child—you poor girl!” Mrs Cressen had a voice toned like the cooing of a dove.

            And still holding her hand, she led Sansa and Arya into an inner room along the hallway. “Sit there,” she said, installing Sansa in the most comfortable seat, on a sofa near the unlit fire. “Come with me Miss Arya: you can help me get the tea ready.”

            Mrs Cressen and Arya left the room, leaving her quite alone. Feeling restless and unnaturally impatient, Sansa rose from her seat and went to the door. She peered into the empty hallway and then crossed the threshold; intent on finding her sister and Mrs Cressen so that she might offer them some assistance.

            Not fully mindful of her recuperating state, Sansa stumbled over an obstacle in her path: her head became dizzy, her sight dim, and her limbs feeble. She could not soon recover herself. Sansa fell, but not onto the ground: outstretched arms caught her; Sansa looked up—she was supported by Mr Baratheon. Indeed, that morning, fancying he had heard her descent from her chamber, Mr Baratheon had appeared instantly.

            He regarded her with solemn, concerned eyes. Then quite unexpectedly, he swept her up into his arms and began carrying her back down the hallway. At first Sansa did not know to what room he had borne her; all was cloudy to her glazed sight: presently, Sansa recognised the interior of the small parlour Mrs Cressen had led her into earlier. Mr Baratheon placed her gently onto the sofa and then settled himself next to her—he was quite near.

            “How are you now, Miss Stark? Are you pained in any way?” Mr Baratheon inquired in a low, earnest voice.

            “Much better, sir: I shall be well soon,” she replied shyly, blushing up to the roots of her hair.

            “Shall I fetch you some tea? Your lips are parched.”

            “No, there is no need; Mrs Cressen and my sister should be back presently.” He nodded gravely, still close and gazing at her attentively.

            “Have you eaten anything today?”

            “Yes—I find my appetite quite recovered.”

            “Good, good,” he said, nodding again; “I am glad to hear it, I—”

            His words were cut short by the re-entrance of Arya and Mrs Cressen with the tea tray; and in her sister’s hands was a small plate of little lemon cakes, freshly turned out of the oven.

            “Here we are now, Miss Stark,” said the housekeeper, setting her tray down on the nearest side table. “You must be hungry. Miss Arya says you have had nothing since breakfast—Oh! Mr Baratheon, sir!”

            “Good day, Mrs Cressen—Miss Arya,” he responded in a somewhat distracted tone of voice.

            Then, as if remembering himself, Mr Baratheon shifted away from Sansa. His overall appearance had now been schooled into partial indifference; partial and not complete due to the faint reddening of his cheeks. Inwardly, he seemed to have coiled up like a spring; ready to propel himself from the room at the slightest provocation. He glanced at Sansa searchingly.

            She had, by this point, swallowed some tea, and had found herself mightily refreshed by the beverage: it gave new tone to her unstrung nerves, and enabled her to steadily return Mr Baratheon’s penetrating gaze.

            Observing her sister and the stern master of the house from the corner of one grey eye, Arya promptly entered into a conversation with Mrs Cressen. She asked her about the history of Storms End and the surrounding area, the answers to which the old matron was all too happy to provide. In due course, Mr Baratheon and Sansa recommenced their exchange.

            “I am glad you are better,” said Mr Baratheon in a low voice.

            “Thank you, sir—you—you are too kind.”

            “No, not kind.”

            Sansa coloured, hesitated, and was silent.

            “ _Kindness_ is not an adequate description of my regard for you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Stannis has a thing for carrying Sansa around bridal style ;)
> 
> Nerdy Sides Notes:
> 
> \- Warburg's tincture was a pharmaceutical drug, invented in 1834 by Dr Carl Warburg. It was well known in the Victorian era as a medicine for fevers, especially tropical fevers, including malaria. Dr Warburg advocated that Warburg's Tincture could be employed at all stages of fever; that it could also be used as a tonic in debility and convalescence, as well as a prophylactic. 
> 
> \- So I looked up the types of food invalids would be fed in the Victorian era and it was pretty interesting. Everything I've listed is fairly self explanatory, except for maybe feather cake: 
> 
> "Cake of the simpler kinds, especially sponge cake, is frequently given to the sick. Good sponge cake, served with sweet cream or a glass of milk, is an excellent lunch for an invalid. Some of the plain kinds of butter cakes - those made with a little butter - such as white, feather, and similar varieties, are excellent food." 
> 
> We all know Sansa has a bit of a sweet tooth, so I thought she'd like a little bit of cake in this chapter ;)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated.
> 
> Cappy x


	16. Love Returned and Renewed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! Sorry for the late update - flu/colds have been doing the rounds in the English department at my uni :( Ugh, it's been awful, but I think I'm over the worst of it now :) Thank you for all your lovely reviews - hope you enjoy this latest chapter ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

The following day Sansa lingered alone in her bedchamber, her long red hair loosened and falling to her waist; resting from the task of combing it out, Sansa leaned her cheek on her hand and fixed her eyes on the carpet. Arya would appear soon enough, insisting on helping her dress, and then they would meet Mrs Cressen in the housekeeper’s room for breakfast. It was strange. Sansa had risen that day with undiminished gladness: nourishment and rest had brought strength. Indeed, she felt altogether more herself; and yet, as she sat upon her bed, still in her bedclothes and white dressing gown, her mind was a muddle of pictures—images of Mr Baratheon, scenes where he and she had been together; winter fireside sketches; a glowing landscape of an autumn afternoon passed with him in the bosom of Storms End’s grounds; divine vignettes of mild and mellow spring moments, when she had sat at his side in that ivy lined arbour in the orchard.

            What had he meant? _Kindness is not an adequate description of my regard for you_. Closeted there, silent and solitary, what could she do but think on those words? Noiselessly, Sansa rose from the bed and began to pace the short length of the room, her head drooped, her hands folded.

            “What are you doing?” asked Arya, startling her sister out of her thoughts. As was often typical of the younger Miss Stark, Arya had neglected to knock before entering. Upon seeing her at the door, Sansa halted in her tracks.

            “I—I was…”

            “Thinking about _him_ ,” surmised Arya, with a self-satisfied smirk; “Justine says she saw Mr Baratheon carrying you down the hallway yesterday.”

            Sansa felt her cheeks begin to redden as she blustered out an exasperated and dismissive sigh. She then began to search the room for her day clothes in an effort to avoid her sister’s smug look.

            “Now tell me,” continued Arya, inching closer to her; “was it a sudden dizzy spell or a _swoon_ which caused you to fall into his arms?” Arya drooped onto the bed and dramatically flung a hand across her brow.

            “Arya,” said Sansa, casting her a brief warning look.

            Her sister carried on unperturbed: “when I met him on the stairwell later that day he could hardly get a word out when I questioned him about it.”

            “Arya, you didn’t!” Sansa spun round to face her.

            “Of course I did—you should have seen him! I didn’t think such a severe and unsmiling man like him would be capable of blushing. Oh! and his face when I said—”

            “Arya, please!”

            “I don’t know why you are being so blockheaded about this! Anyone who looks at the two of you together can see that you are head over heels in love with one another—it’s obvious.”

            A little while later, the two sisters entered Mrs Cressen’s small parlour. Sansa found the housekeeper, as she always found her, surrounded by perfect neatness, cleanliness, and comfort—no dust on her polished furniture, none on her carpet, fresh flowers in the vase on the breakfast table, and a small, yet bright fire in the grate. The old lady sat primly in a cushioned rocking chair, her hands busied with some knitting; she smiled broadly when she saw the Stark sisters enter. With soft cheerfulness they wished each other a good morning and then promptly sat down to a healthful breakfast. Having eaten their fill, the sisters thenceforth hastened upstairs. They met Shireen leaving the school-room.

            Upon seeing her beloved governess, Shireen propelled herself into Sansa’s open arms. Sansa laughed happily and gave her charge a fond squeeze.

            “Where are you going? It is time for lessons.”

            “Papa says you are still recovering, so I must away to the nursery.”

            “Where is he?”

            “In there.” Shireen pointed to the apartment she had left. Without a second thought, Sansa went in, and there he stood.

            Mr Baratheon had his back to her—his figure a partial silhouette against the soft, iridescent light issuing from the large casement in front of him. His head was inclined slightly, perusing a piece of Shireen’s schoolwork. Had she been closer to him, Sansa would have seen how his index finger absentmindedly traced the flowing script of her corrections. However, just as she began to proceed further into the room, Mr Baratheon turned to face her. His face mustered colour; his lips almost smiled, and yet were compressed; Mr Baratheon’s eyes gleamed, and yet he resolutely knit his brow.

            “Good day, Miss Stark.”

            “Good day, sir. Shireen says I am not to teach her today?”

            “Yes: you are still recovering.”

            “Mr Baratheon, sir, I cannot impose upon your generosity any longer: I must return to my duty.”

            “I do not wish for you to overexert yourself.”

            “I can assure you, I feel perfectly—”

            “Miss Stark,” he injected hurriedly, taking a step towards her; “only yesterday you all but fainted. Had I not caught you…” His words faded away as he gazed down at her with that now familiar look of concern.

            Sansa flushed and averted her gaze; she was suddenly aware that Arya had not followed her into the schoolroom.

            “Perhaps,” she conceded; “I have not completely regained my strength. Yet, I must confess that I am restless with inaction!” She longed to breathe the fresh air, to revisit the flowers and trees of Storms End. Sansa was loath to think that she might miss the last of spring’s natural beauties cooped up inside her bedchamber.

            Mr Baratheon regarded her for a moment, and then took another hesitant step towards her; “Miss Stark,” he began. “Would you be amenable to—” he faltered, then began again: “If you are in need of mild exertion, perhaps you would like to accompany me for a walk about the grounds?” He clasped his hands behind his back and watched her with a measure of uneasiness.

            “Yes—yes, I would like that very much, sir.”

            Sansa saw Mr Baratheon smile: his stern features softened; his eyes grew both brilliant and gentle, their ray searching and sweet. They then left the schoolroom together, and descended the stairs in companionable silence; both casting clandestine glances at one another as they made their way towards the hall-door, over the threshold and into the garden. Mr Baratheon had timidly presented his arm for her to take as soon as they had left the threshold of the house.

            “I would not wish for you to trip or to become too fatigued,” he murmured in explanation, Sansa’s hand already resting gently against his upper arm.

            Chancing for an instant to look down, his eyes rested upon her uplifted face, flushed, smiling, happy—shaded with silky tresses and lit with fine eyes. To her had not been denied the gift of beauty. It was not absolutely necessary to know Sansa Stark in order to like her; she was fair enough to please, even at the first view. Her shape suited her age: it was youthful, light, and pliant; every curve was neat, every limb proportionate; her face was expressive and gentle; her eyes were handsome, and gifted at times with a winning beam that stole into the heart, with a language that spoke softly to the affections. Her mouth was very pretty too; she had a fine flow of red hair, which she knew how to arrange with taste; curls became her, and she possessed them in picturesque profusion. Her style of dress, even for a governess, announced taste in the wearer—very understated but elegant in fashion, far from costly in material, but suitable in colour to the fair complexion with which it contrasted, and in make to the tall form which it draped. One might surmise, as Margaery Tyrell did, that Stannis Baratheon held a particular partiality towards the young Miss Stark. And yet, he never had a preference for her, any more than he had a preference for breathing. No other woman existed by the side of her.

            Sansa was so happy to be out of doors, at Mr Baratheon’s side, that she almost danced. They walked on, quietly at first, down the laurel walk and towards the orchard. Around them birds sang in the nearby brake and copse: faithful to their mates and emblematic of love. The day was still, calm and dewy; the ancient oaks with their spreading crowns of green, appeared majestic against their blue backdrop; the hawthorns, known as the May-tree due to their flowering period, where fully in bloom—their scented blossoms growing in flat-topped clusters of fresh white and occasional delicate pink. A little way off, Arya was chasing a giggling Shireen, while Actaeon barked and scampered off after them; Miss Patchett dutifully watched them from her vigil nearer the house.

            In due course, our pair struck up a conversation: Mr Baratheon told Sansa which flowers were beginning to spring, and informed her that certain starlings had built their nests in the church-tower; Sansa wondered if the tolling of the bells in the belfry scared them.

            Mr Baratheon opined that “they were like other such creatures who had just paired—insensible to inconvenience.”

            He did not look at her as he spoke, but instead looked purposely ahead. They continued on with their discourse, finding that they had a dozen topics in common—interesting to them, unimportant to the rest of the world. They took a similar interest in animals, birds, insects, and plants. The nest and proceedings of some ground-bees, which had burrowed in the turf under an old cherry-tree, was one subject of interest; the haunts of certain hedge-sparrows, and the welfare of certain pearly eggs and callow fledglings, another.

            Beyond Storms End, the distant hills were dappled, the horizon was shaded and tinted like mother-of-pearl; silvery blues, soft purples, evanescent greens and rose-shades, all melting into fleeces of white cloud, pure as azury snow, allured the eye as with a remote glimpse of heaven’s foundations. The gentle breeze blowing on the brow was fresh, sweet, and pleasant. Sansa removed her hand from the crook of Mr Baratheon’s elbow, took a step forward, and tilted her pale face up towards the sky—basking in the sun’s soft rays and breathing in the air deeply.

            “Our England is a bonny country,” sighed Sansa happily, “and Yorkshire is one of her bonniest nooks.”

            “And you one of its bonniest maidens.” His voice came from close behind her. She turned round to face him, blushing at the compliment and trying to reign in her beaming smile.

            “We are compatriots,” she said, hereupon presenting her hand, which was accordingly taken; they had stopped walking and now stood in front of the large horse chestnut tree. Mr Baratheon kept hold of her hand as he spoke.

            “Yes,” he agreed, with a grave nod—though he looked warmly down at her. “I am Yorkshire in blood and birth. Innumerable generations of my race sleep under the aisles of Stormcross Church.” He inclined his head in the direction of Storms End; “I drew my first breath in that old grey hall behind us.”

            A Yorkshire gentleman he was, par excellence, in every point; he was one of the most honourable and capable men in Yorkshire; even those who disliked him for his reticence and sternness were forced to respect him. Indeed, the steadfastness of the north was seen in his every feature, as it was heard in his voice; every trait was thoroughly English.

            “And that,” asked Sansa, turning to point towards the nearby forest; “that is Rainwood?”

            “It is.”

            “Have you ever explored it?”

            “Many a time—it is part of the six hundred acres of woodland attached to this estate.”

            “Have you ever been to the heart of it?”

            “Yes.”

            “What is it like?”

“The trees are huge and old,” began Mr Baratheon softly, still holding her hand; there was a note of pride and evident fondness in his tone as he spoke. “When you stand at their roots the summits seem in another region. The trunks remain still and firm as pillars, while the boughs sway to every breeze. In the deepest calm their leaves are never quite hushed, and in high wind a flood rushes—a sea thunders above you.”

            “Was it not the haunt of the Green Queen?”

            “Yes, and some say there are mementos of her still existing. To penetrate into Rainwood, Miss Stark, is to go far back into the dim days of old.” Releasing her hand, he then pointed towards the expansive grouping of ancient trees; “there is a break in the forest, about the centre. That break is a dell—a deep, hollow cup, lined with turf as green and short as the lawn of these grounds. The very oldest of the trees, gnarled mighty oaks, crowd about the brink of this dell. At the bottom lies the ruin of a nunnery.”

            “I should like to see it,” murmured Sansa, dreamily.

            “I should like to show it to you,” replied Mr Baratheon in a low voice.

            Sansa gave him a pained look in response: “you are too good to me,” she said forlornly; “I do not deserve it.”

            “Miss Stark, I—”

            “Sir,” she interrupted, in an unsteady voice; “Mr Baratheon, I must tell you…” Sansa clasped her hands in front of her, and resolutely stared at them. “Sir, I—I was so anxious to do what is right, that I forgot to do what _is_ right. Can you ever forgive me? After all my blundering, and—and blindness!”

            “Sansa.” His voice was hoarse, and trembling with tender passion.

            For an instant she looked up; and then sought to veil her luminous eyes by dropping her forehead to her hands. Stepping nearer, Mr Baratheon besought her with another tremulous eager call upon her name.

            “Sansa.”

            He came closer to her. His hands gently touched the underside of her arms as he brought his face to a level with her ear; and whispered—panted out the words:

            “Sansa, look at me.”

            At that third call she raised her head to face him.

            “My dearest Sansa—for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour’s conversation. My dearest, most _beloved_ Sansa.” Again, his hands softly brushed against Sansa’s arms as he gazed at her in that serious, penetrative way of his. “You are too generous to trifle with me,” he continued; “I spoke with your sister yesterday and it has taught me to hope, as I had scarcely allowed myself before.”

            Sansa was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment: she felt the dread of being awakened from the happiest dream.

            “It is not my way to flatter and talk soft nonsense—I cannot make speeches,” he said, in a tone of such sincere, decided tenderness. “If your feelings are still what they were the last time we stood together before this tree, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes have not changed, but one word from you will silence me on this subject forever.”

            Now fully believing in the realness and magnitude of the moment before her, Sansa smiled back at him; her face was full of unrestrained love and devotion. Mr Baratheon’s hands slid down her arms, taking her hands into his; he clasped them to his chest and let out a shuddering breath.

            “If, however, your feelings have changed I will have to tell you—you have bewitched me body and soul. I am half agony, half hope. I admit I have been weak and resentful, but never inconstant. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own—Sansa, I love you, I never wish to be parted from you from this day on.”

            “That is very well because all my heart is yours, Stannis Baratheon,” cried Sansa happily, a tear rolling down her cheek. “I love you,” she choked out on a sob; “as a woman loves a man; as a heroine loves a hero; as I have never loved anyone in my entire life.”

            He took her face between his hands, turning it up, and looking down at her; for a moment he contemplated her, as one who had fallen out of heaven. Then, using all his strength to be gentle, Mr Baratheon let his lips touch Sansa’s so lightly he could hardly feel it; as she eagerly returned his kiss, it grew more and more fervent.

            “Oh, Mr Baratheon, I am not good enough,” she whispered in a broken voice, after some time of delicious silence. Her pale hands stroked his chest fondly as she turned her face and laid it on his shoulder; and it was too wonderful to feel her soft cheek against his, for him to wish to see either deep blushes or loving eyes. He clasped her close.

            “Not good enough! Don’t mock my own deep feeling of unworthiness.”

            After a minute or two, he gently placed his hands upon her narrow waist and urged her to take a step back.

            “Sansa, lift up your head. I have something to show you.” She slowly faced him, glowing beautifully through her blushes.

            “Do you know these roses?” he said, drawing out a small pocket-book from the inner lining of his dark blue tailcoat; inside it were treasured up some dried flowers. With one hand he held out the flowers, with the other he held fast onto Sansa’s waist; her hand clasping his upper arm as she reached out to touch the delicate blue petals.

            “No,” she replied, with innocent curiosity. “Did I give them to you?”

            “No! Vanity you did not. You may have worn sister roses very probably.”

            Sansa looked at them, wondering for a minute, then she smiled a little. “They are from Winterfell, are they not? Oh, have you been there? When were you there?”

            Mr Baratheon leaned forward and brushed a kiss against her temple. “I wanted to see the place where Sansa Stark grew to what she is, even at the worst time of all, when I had no hope of ever calling her mine. I went there shortly after your sister arrived.”

            “You must give them to me,” she said, trying to take them out of his hand with gentle violence.

            “Very well. Only you must pay me for them.”

            Blushing in acquiescence, Sansa leant up to kiss him shyly, and then more purposely, upon his smiling lips. Reluctantly, Mr Baratheon broke the kiss, earning a little pout from Sansa in response; with eyes twinkling in happiness and mirth he quickly deposited the blue winter roses back into his pocket-book, and into his tailcoat. He swiftly encircled Sansa back into his arms; and then with an achingly exquisite slowness, began to press a myriad of kisses upon her temple, her brow, her closed eyelids, the pink apples of her cheeks, and finally upon her ready lips.

            “We should go—you and I—to that wood,” Mr Baratheon said after little while, as he stood reclined against the gnarled trunk of the horse chestnut; Sansa tucked snugly in his arms, her copper head positioned sweetly under his cheek; one small, shell-like ear pressed to his heart.

            “Hmm?” she murmured in reply, while reaching up to press a soft kiss against the underside of his jaw.

            “Rainwood. We could go today, if you like? It would not tire you too much to walk so far?”

            “Oh no—especially if I know you will be there to carry me if I should wish it.”

            Mr Baratheon laughed and kissed the top of her head fondly, not making any effort to dispute her claim. “You would not find it dull with me alone?”

            “I should not. I think we should suit. Though, if I didn’t know any better, I might accuse you of trying to spirit me away to some clandestine location in order to behave improperly towards me. ” Sansa peered up at him with mirthful eyes and an arched brow.

            “I agree with you—but that is quite a different thing to what I am proposing.”

            “Yes,” laughed Sansa, “we are going simply to see the old trees, the old ruins; to pass a morning in old times, surrounded by olden silence, and above all by stillness and quietude.”

            He cast her an amused look, before disentangling himself from her. “Well then, we best be off if we wish to be back before luncheon.”

            Full of the joys of love returned, Sansa and Mr Baratheon began to walk hand in hand in the direction of Rainwood; their pace slow, due to Mr Baratheon's nervousness concerning Sansa’s still delicate condition. Soon enough, however, they left the fields surrounding Storms End behind, and preceded into the shade of the wood, where the new leaves of the chestnuts and beeches were emerging, and a waft of sweetness drifted upon the breeze. It was the scent of bluebells—no sharp notes to it, no sophistication, just honey on honey, straight from the jar. Sansa sighed it in. Ahead of them lay the drifts, rivers and lakes of the blue itself, one layer after another; mysteriously hazy in its density, sliding off into the shadows of the Rainwood like a vision of what a wood could or should be. Here and there, visible from miles away, Sansa and Mr Baratheon could see one or two very pale, even white ones, but most of the flowers occupied that strange and shifting middle ground between lilac and blue.

            Releasing her hand, Mr Baratheon took a step away from her and bent down to pluck up a bluebell between finger and thumb. He turned, presenting it to Sansa with a soft, bashful smile. The folded-back tips to the petals were a pale lilac, but the base was a royal blue, with stripes of that richer colour intertwining with the lilac. That maybe is the secret of a bluebell wood, thought Sansa: it is constantly on the move from one colour to the other, stirred by the slightest of breezes, riffled like the surface of a pond. Mr Baratheon tucked the bluebell stem behind her ear. With a feather-light touch, he then traced a path down from her temple to the curve of her jaw, his index finger coming to rest upon the pink bow of her lower lip.

            There is another quality, reader, which makes the bluebell magical: it is in a hurry. The flowers have beaten the closing over of the tree canopy and their rush to become themselves is what makes them taut and glossy, with so much damp in them that you cannot rub one bluebell leaf past another. Their mineral green leaves cling to one another, like wet flesh to wet flesh. It doesn’t last. As soon as they are perfect, they are over. Within a couple of weeks, the entire population will be drowned as if a flood has run through the Rainwood. Now is the moment—when spring turns to summer. We must recognise that many things in life are transitory, and yet many things also endure, despite the changefulness that surrounds them. As Stannis leant forward to place a kiss upon her waiting lips, Sansa knew that their love was one such steadfast thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo...we all know I can do angst but can I do proper, happy, smoochy times romance?? Let me know! ;) I basically did a mashup of all my favourite love declarations/romantic moments from period dramas/novels. There's a lot of Jane Austen in there, not gonna lie. 
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- I took the name Rainwood straight from the books: it's a large forest that lies on Cape Wrath in the Stormlands. So it seemed appropriate, plus England/the UK is a rainy place so it doesn't sound that out of place to me, lol. The Green Queen is also in the books - she was "a woods witch that challenged the rule of King Durwald I Durrandon and held the rainwood in rebellion against Storm's End for the better part of a generation." 
> 
> \- So I'm very lucky where my family live, in that we live very close to a bluebell wood which is part of this massive estate called Ashridge. In my opinion, British bluebells are literally one of the most beautiful natural sights you will ever see.They are often an indicator of ancient woodlands, so bluebell woods are likely to date back to at least 1600. Bluebells tend to come out near the end of April/beginning of May - so I had to go back to make sure I'd got the months right so this would work!
> 
> Victorians loved flower symbolism and bluebells have some pretty cute symbolism attached to them. They are associated with constancy, gratitude and everlasting love. Bluebells are also closely linked to the realm of fairies and are sometimes referred to as "fairy thimbles." To call fairies to a convention, the bluebells would be rung. 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed this loved up chapter ;) Reviews, as always, are very welcome!
> 
> Cappy x


	17. Harry Plantagenet is Thine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a wait, but here we are :) Thank you for all the lovely reviews, hope you enjoy the new loved up chapter ;)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

Before Sansa Stark, Stannis Baratheon had believed himself to be a creature beyond romantic love, and indeed, beyond passion. The very thought of entwining oneself up in another’s arms, of pressing your lips to theirs as part of that fevered embrace, was a notion entirely foreign to him. It was Mr Baratheon’s belief that nature had not intended for him to be a great lover—or a lover of any kind for that matter; that had not been the way of things when he had been married, and neither was it the way of things preceding it. Indeed, he had never made any pretence of comprehending women. A wife could be her husband’s true companion, his confidante, his mainstay; this much he _was_ aware of, having borne witness to it in the form of his parent’s marriage. And yet dutifully, he had honoured his late father’s wish for an alliance with the wealthy Florents; and Mr Baratheon had reasoned with himself that surely his father could not have anticipated the kind of woman Selyse would grow into, nor the unhappy union their marriage would produce.

            It was a marvel then, the love that he had discovered with Sansa. More wondrous and rousing still was how effortlessly she had elicited such feelings of want and desire in him; as if she had, with gentle violence, reached into his chest and extracted his very heart. She had laid him bare. Indeed, the day his parents had died, Mr Baratheon had thought himself irrevocably cast off by God and religion, but _now_ —now the whole breadth of heaven leaned into his touch, embracing him in return.

            Sansa was at present pressed tightly against him, close enough that he could feel the hurried beat of her heart; her soft, distinctly feminine figure fitting snugly into the strong, welcoming cradle of his arms. His head swimming with joy, Mr Baratheon drifted into happiness, as though losing his very senses. On her part, Sansa felt she could quite easily spend an eternity treasured up in his arms, in amongst sweet smelling bluebells and ancient, towering trees.

            Daringly, Mr Baratheon parted her fevered lips with his tongue, and Sansa felt it tentatively insinuate itself between her teeth; the tips of their tongues touched as she shyly welcomed the intrusion, and it was then that she made a falling, sighing sound. The noise was greedy and it made Mr Baratheon greedy too; he felt his lusts rise up, and he knew himself to be in thrall. Mr Baratheon subsequently dove more forcefully into the depths of her mouth in a long, searching caress. He unwound an arm from about her shoulders; the other still firmly wrapped around her slender waist; he then reached up to touch Sansa’s face, first at the meeting of their mouths—at the soft wet corners of their lips—then at her jaw, her cheek, her brow, all the while kissing her, and kissing her. It was the kind of kiss that, once begun, never really ends. Interrupted, yes. Paused, certainly. But from that very moment onward, Stannis Baratheon saw the whole of his life as only a breath away from kissing her again.

            Reluctantly, they parted lips; their mouths separating with a soft sound, their eyes sparkling, and their cheeks tinged pink. Sansa’s breath came fast and warm against his neck as she leaned limply against him with dazed, dreamy exhaustion. In spite of this, or because of it, Mr Baratheon carefully released her from his embrace and took a purposeful step away from her. Sansa frowned and looked up at him with quizzical, doleful eyes.

            “You blushed, and now you are white, sir: what is that for?”

            “Sansa, I—I have behaved very badly: I did not mean to bring you here to…to insult you.”

            “ _Insult_ me? You have not insulted me, Mr Baratheon.” He gave her a strained look in response, his jaw tightening acutely, as she reached out a hand to touch his face; his subsequent words halted her movements.

            “Your honour, your reputation—Sansa, forgive me, I should not have—and yet, I could not help myself, I…” He took another unsteady step away from her. “Sansa, you have created sensations which my heart has never known before.” His face was very much agitated and very much flushed, and there were strong workings in his features, and a strange gleam in his eyes.

            Sansa contemplated his words and troubled countenance for a moment, unsure of how to respond. At length she said: “I know my honour is safe in your hands, Mr Baratheon,” her voice sounding shy and soft upon the ear.

            He stared at her, his dark eyes narrowed and doubtful.

            “Look at you…” he murmured then, taking a step forward and reaching out a hand to brush against her reddened lips—the evidence of their shared kisses still distinctly upon them.

            Thinking better of himself, Mr Baratheon quickly retracted his hand, letting it fall to his side; for a brief moment it flexed with the barely contained desire to touch her again. He swallowed and blinked back at her.

            Sansa could feel Mr Baratheon’s indecision in every word he did not say and every move he did not make. He was tense with uncertainty, quivering with irresolution. Her answering gaze was sloe-eyed and flushed with a kind of desire hitherto unknown to her. Nevertheless, inexperience bade her to maintain the distance Mr Baratheon had created between them. He continued to gaze at her, his countenance helpless and imploring.

            “Oh, Sansa, you torture me!” he exclaimed suddenly, his voice low and hoarse. “With that searching, yet faithful look, you torture me.”

            “How can I do that? I do not understand you, sir.”

            “No, you do not,” he agreed: and added wildly, shaking his head: “Sansa, you cannot know what a feeling it is to want you like I do. I have behaved quite unlike myself. Forgive me, forgive me, I preyed upon your innocence and naivety by bringing you here. Believe me, it was unconsciously done.” He turned away from her then, shame etched clearly upon his stern and solemn aspect.

            “I do not feel preyed upon,” countered Sansa, her words leaving her lips slowly; “quite the contrary, in fact.” She smiled faintly, gazing up at the strong, tall length of his back from beneath lowered lashes. “I have never felt safer than when I am in your arms…Stannis.”

            “Are you flattering me?” he demanded, turning sharply upon her, and searching her face with an eye of acute penetration.

            “No,” she said softly, smiling bemusedly at his sudden quickness. She seemed to think it unnecessary to proffer any eager disavowal of the charge. Instead, she took an emboldened, hesitant step towards him; Mr Baratheon stiffened involuntarily, casting her a somewhat panicked look. Unperturbed, Sansa slid her lily-white hands upwards from his heaving chest to rest softly upon his broad shoulders; all the time shushing and stroking him like a groom reassuring a frightened foal. Where they were stood a gentle breeze rustled through the trees, disturbing the surrounding expanse of bluebells like ripples across a still pool of water.

            Mr Baratheon turned his lips to the hand that lay on his shoulder, closing his eyes and sighing dejectedly. He loved and desired her very much—more than he could really trust himself to say—more than words had power to express.

            “Let us return to the house; our absence will surely be noticed soon,” he murmured, speaking in Sansa’s ear as his cheek was laid against hers. “When we are married,” he then continued, in his deepest tone; “when I am at liberty to call you _Mrs Baratheon_ , I will take you to that dell I spoke of, and I will show you the ruined nunnery.”

            “Do you promise?” Sansa whispered back, leaning into his touch. Any disappointment she had felt was swiftly forgotten as he brushed a feather-light kiss against her temple. She sighed adoringly.

            “I promise.” Mr Baratheon tentatively slid his hands around her tapered waist. He let out a quaking breath; his hold on her tightening marginally. “Anything you want—anything I have—it is yours.”

            Sansa hummed contentedly, inclining her head towards his so that their noses lightly brushed against one another. “And if _you_ are all I want?”

            “Then I am yours,” he replied solemnly, pressing his forehead against hers and closing his eyes momentarily. “Since the very first moment I beheld you on Durran’s Lane it has been so.” His eyes, once open again, were dark and penetrating as he looked at her, leading Sansa to think that he might kiss her. “Come,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “We must depart.”

            Sansa smiled somewhat feebly in response as Mr Baratheon drew away from her, his hands slipping from their former position on her waist. Noticing her vaguely forlorn expression, his brows drew together in concern; he reached out and clasped her hand in his, bringing her to walk closely by his side.

            Upon entering the house unseen, Mr Baratheon led her into the small parlour he had carried her to the previous day. Its windows were open, allowing fresh air, perfumed with flowers from the garden, to permeate through room. Still holding her small hand in his, Mr Baratheon brought Sansa over to a generously cushioned window-seat, in a large, deeply recessed casement. He gestured for her to sit down.

            “Rest here awhile,” he insisted, his hands coming to rest upon her waist once more, so that he might exert some gentle force upon her. Sansa acquiesced, tiredness suddenly overcoming her. She yawned involuntarily.

            A small, fond smile appeared on Mr Baratheon’s face as he regarded her. “I have to go: I have some business I must attend to.” Sansa nodded in understanding but he continued on, his tone somewhat apologetic: “My brother and Mr Tyrell are leaving tomorrow morning and I must assist them in a few matters before they do so. Davos too, I must see him as well; there are some fields I must inspect which have…” His words came to a halt and his expression turned rather sheepish; “I shan’t bore you with the details. Rest now.”

            “I will see you this evening?”

            “Yes. I shall let Mrs Cressen and your sister know where you are so that they might find you in time for tea.”

            “Thank you.”

            “You’re welcome,” he murmured softly; Sansa had now manoeuvred herself to a curled up position upon the window-seat. Mr Baratheon observed her quietly for a moment. She blinked sleepily back at him and smiled; another yawn escaped her as her eyelids began to droop.

            If Shakespeare’s Titania had ever been dressed in steely blue cotton with a white floral motif, and had fallen asleep upon a cushion and damask covered window-seat, Sansa might have been taken for her. Gazing down at her, Mr Baratheon was struck afresh by her beauty; the wondrous feeling of love returned seemed to give force to every sweet quality and charm which Sansa possessed. With a sigh, Mr Baratheon reluctantly left the room; but not before leaning down to place a gentle kiss upon her forehead; his fingers tracing the soft shell of her ear, the bluebell he had given her still tucked sweetly behind it. As Sansa dozed, Mr Baratheon’s features and form remained with her; the sound of his voice was quite distinct in her ear; his few caresses seemed renewed.

            In due course, Arya came to fetch her for tea, which was to be had in the housekeeper’s room. Yorkshire people in those days took their tea round the table, sitting well into it, with their knees duly introduced under the mahogany. It was essential to have a multitude of plates of bread and butter, varied in sorts and plentiful in quantity. It was thought proper, too, that on the centre plate should stand a glass dish of marmalade. Among the viands was expected to be found a small assortment of cheeses and tarts. If there was also a plate of thin slices of ham garnished with green parsley, so much the better.

            Sansa sat quite still as they ate, looking a little dreamy eyed, and very much indisposed to stir; her hands, when not holding her utensils or clasping a warm teacup, toyed with the little bluebell in her lap. She was flushed though there was no fire lit. Her red hair had been more than once dishevelled by the morning wind that day. Her attire was a light, neatly fitting, but amply flowing dress of cotton; the shawl she had worn outside was still draped in a careless fold around her. Indolent, wilful, picturesque, and singularly beautiful was her aspect—prettier than usual, as if some soft inward emotion, stirred who knows how, had given new bloom and expression to her features.

            As soon as the Stark sisters had left Mrs Cressen to get on with her daily duties, Arya had pulled Sansa to one side, peering at her quizzically.

            “Why do you stare at me so?” asked her sister as they traversed the stairs; they were headed towards the nursery to visit Shireen and Miss Patchett.

            “You look different.”

            “How so?”

            “Happier, brighter.” Arya’s grey eyes narrowed shrewdly. “He spoke to you didn’t he!”

            “Possibly,” replied Sansa, turning her face away to hide her smile.

            “You should thank me, you know: I told him he had better speak to you or I would go outside and snap a branch off a hawthorn and beat him with it.”

            Sansa looked at her aghast; she tried to imagine her sixteen year old sister, a mere wisp of a thing compared to the tall and imposing figure of Mr Baratheon, beating him into some kind of submission.

            “He asked you to marry him then?” Arya added, her long face inquisitive and expectant.

            “Not in so many words, no,” Sansa said softly; “but the implication was there.” Her cheeks reddened as she recalled how Mr Baratheon had articulated his love for her, and then kissed her so exquisitely.

            “So what did he say?”

            “He told me he loved me; that he had never stopped loving me, even after I’d been such a blind fool; and that he never wished to be parted from me.”

            “Well, he is parted from you right now.”

            “Oh, Arya, don’t be so pedantic!”

            The younger Stark laughed merrily, giving her sister an impish grin.

            “Let us speak no more of it, Arya. I am determined to be useful when I see Shireen, and to perform my role of governess without fault.”

            That evening, when it arrived, was still and warm—close and sultry it even promised to become. Round the descending sun the clouds glowed purple; early summer tints, rather Indian than English, suffused the horizon, and cast rosy reflections on the hillside, the house-front, on tree-trunk, on winding road and undulating pasture-ground. Drawn curtains, softly shining lamps, yellowy glowing candles, gave now to the familiar drawing room its best evening charm. It is probable that the small party present there felt this charm, for they all looked exceedingly happy. Sansa, on whom the soft excitement of the warm evening seemed working with unwonted power, stood by a large casement with its curtains slightly parted between her small hands; she fixed her eyes on the deep-burning west, and sank into a pleasurable trance. Mr Baratheon, standing by the unlit hearth, regarded her attentively, dreaming too in his way.

            “What shall we do now, Miss Stark? Shall we have some entertainment?” asked Renly Baratheon from his seat upon the damask covered sofa; Mr Tyrell sat lounging next to him.

            “What shall we do, Mr Renly?” Sansa repeated, as if pulled out of a daze. She turned to face the younger Baratheon: “you must decide; it is your last evening with us after all.”

            “Chess?” Renly cast Mr Tyrell a querying glance.

            “No,” replied his companion.

            “Nor draughts, nor backgammon?”

            “No, no; we both hate silent games, that only keep one’s hand employed—don’t we?”

            “I believe we do. Then, shall we talk scandal?”

            “About whom?”

            “I wasn’t aware that you were sufficiently interested in anybody to take pleasure in pulling their character to pieces,” interjected Mr Baratheon, casting the two younger gentlemen a cursory glance of annoyance.

            He swiftly returned his gaze back to Sansa. With his first calm words a vivid colour had flashed into Sansa’s cheeks, which never left them again during the evening. Mr Baratheon’s stern mouth twitched into a little smile, his eyes gleaming with barely repressed adoration.

            “An assertion which comes to the point,” replied Renly sagely. “For my part—unamiable as it sounds—I must say, no.”

            “And I, too,” added Mr Tyrell, sadly. From her corner of the room Arya snickered, perplexed by what she surmised was the gentlemen’s utter ridiculousness.

            “Stannis, perhaps you might read to us?” Renly asked with faux innocence.

            “Yes, Mr Baratheon,” agreed Arya enthusiastically. “Read us _Henry V_ or some other heroic romp!”

            Mr Baratheon tore his gaze away from Sansa; his back stiffened. “I must read Shakespeare?”

            “Your heart is a lyre, Stannis; but the lot of your life has not been a minstrel to sweep it, and it is often silent. Let glorious William come near and touch it; you will see how he will draw the power and melody out of its chords.”

            Mr Baratheon looked unconvinced and duly uncomfortable with the prospect of performing in front of their little party. He was certain that, at the very least, Miss Arya Stark would surely laugh at him as he blundered his way through the Swan of Avon’s verse. Perceiving his displeasure, Sansa gave him a sweet smile, which she hoped offered some measure of sympathy as well as encouragement.

            “You must have his spirit before you,” added Mr Tyrell, nodding earnestly. “You must hear his voice with your mind’s ear; you must take some of his soul into yours.”

            “With a view to making me better? Is it to operate like a sermon?” inquired Mr Baratheon, his expression incredulous.

            “It is to stir you, brother, to give you new sensations. It is to make you feel your life more strongly.”

            Mr Baratheon eyes fell upon Sansa and he observed her intently for a moment. He then moved sedately to one end of the drawing room where a large bookcase was neatly sequestered. He flicked through the pages of a particular volume quite distractedly, aware that all eyes were on him; he shifted his weight in agitation, then walking over to where Sansa stood, thrust the book into her hands.

            “I fear I have no talent when it comes to selecting passages.”

            Sansa smiled in understanding. “Here,” she said, after a minute or two’s perusal. She held the book open in one hand, the other highlighting the passage she wished for him to read. Mr Baratheon took the book from her, though his eyes remained fixed on hers as their hands briefly touched during the exchange.

            “Come, then, sit near me, and correct me should I mispronounce.”

            “I am to be the teacher, then, and you my pupil?”

            “I think you are well suited to such a task.”

            “And Shakespeare is our science, since we are going to study?”

            “It appears so.”

            Mr Baratheon gestured for Sansa to sit down upon his usual chair by the hearth. Placing the book between them, he then reposed his arm on the back of the chair. His brows briefly furrowed in annoyance; he let out a deep sigh, and thus began reading aloud without so much as a glance about the room. Sansa’s lips hitched up in amusement as she beheld his disgruntled state.

           

_“Now, fie upon my false French! By mine honour, in_

_true English, I love thee, Kate: by which honour I_

_dare not swear thou lovest me; yet my blood begins to_

_flatter me that thou dost, notwithstanding the poor_

_and untempering effect of my visage. Now, beshrew_

_my father's ambition! he was thinking of civil wars_

_when he got me: therefore was I created with a_

_stubborn outside, with an aspect of iron, that, when_

_I come to woo ladies, I fright them. But, in faith,_

_Kate, the elder I wax, the better I shall appear:_

_my comfort is, that old age, that ill layer up of_

_beauty, can do no more, spoil upon my face: thou_

_hast me, if thou hast me, at the worst; and thou_

_shalt wear me, if thou wear me, better and better:_

_and therefore tell me, most fair Katharine, will you_

_have me? Put off your maiden blushes; avouch the_

_thoughts of your heart with the looks of an empress;_

_take me by the hand, and say 'Harry of England I am_

_thine:' which word thou shalt no sooner bless mine_

_ear withal, but I will tell thee aloud 'England is_

_thine, Ireland is thine, France is thine, and Harry_

_Plantagenet is thine;' who though I speak it before_

_his face, if he be not fellow with the best king,_

_thou shalt find the best king of good fellows._

_Come, your answer in broken music; for thy voice is_

_music and thy English broken; therefore, queen of_

_all, Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken_

_English; wilt thou have me?”_

           

            Sansa listened at first with her eyes downcast, following the lines of verse in unison with the cadence of Mr Baratheon’s deep voice—but soon she furtively raised them. Leaning back in his chair Sansa could watch Mr Baratheon without him perceiving where her gaze was fixed. His cheeks had a colour, his eyes a light, his countenance an expression this evening which would have made even plain features striking; but there was not the grievous defect of plainness to pardon in his case, at least in Sansa’s love-struck eyes. Such a face was calculated to awaken not only the calm sentiment of esteem, the distant one of admiration, but some feeling more intimate—attentiveness, perhaps, consideration, interest. When he had finished, Mr Baratheon turned to Sansa, and met her eye.

            “You did not correct me, so I will conclude that that was well done?”

            Sansa smiled sweetly up at him, glowing with pleasure, half-shyly, half-proudly. Much to Mr Baratheon’s embarrassment, his daughter, Mrs Cressen, his brother and Mr Tyrell had begun clapping enthusiastically.

            “I thought you were going to read the St. Crispin’s Day speech,” grumbled Arya, slouching moodily into her chair; she did not join in with the applause.

            “Now, have you felt Shakespeare?” asked Sansa, some minutes after she had closed the book.

            “I think so,” replied Mr Baratheon softly.

            “And have you felt anything in King Henry that mirrors your own life?” continued Sansa, just as quietly.

            “Perhaps I have.”

            Eventually, everyone bar Sansa and Mr Baratheon departed the warmly lit room; the young Misters Tyrell and Baratheon excusing themselves earlier than usual, their reasoning being the early start to their Italian excursion on the morrow. As Mrs Cressen gathered up her knitting and took Shireen’s little hand in hers, Arya hung back from the exiting party. The younger Miss Stark loitered by the large oak door, casting her sister a knowing and puckish look before hastily crossing the threshold.

            Almost immediately, Mr Baratheon placed his hand on Sansa’s shoulder, stooped, and pressed a kiss on her forehead.

            “Oh!” she said, as if the action had unsealed her lips, “I was so distracted while you were gone; I fear I was quite useless today. I am almost too happy now. Are you happy, Stannis? Oh, I can call you that now, can’t I?”

            “Yes.” Mr Baratheon smiled broadly, without censure. “Yes to both your questions.”

            Taking his hand, Sansa rose gracefully from Mr Baratheon’s chair and came to stand beside him. There was no lock on the drawing room door; they could potentially be interrupted at any moment. Perhaps the risk heightened their pleasure as Mr Baratheon pressed his whole length against her, his chest coming into contact with hers, his breath hot upon her neck.

            “I can still taste you,” he said, in that low, deep tone of his; the one that sent shudders down Sansa’s spine. “While I spoke with my brother and Mr Tyrell,” he continued; “while I rode out with Davos to inspect the lower fields…Sansa, I read that passage just now, with your taste in my mouth.” He hesitated a moment, pressing a lingering kiss against her neck. “Dearest, I should like us to be married very soon.”

            “Kiss me,” she whispered breathlessly, sliding her hands up his broad chest to clutch at his stiff, starched collar.

            Giving into her command, he laid his hand on her shoulder, and softly, gently, it began to travel down the curve of her back. Then, full on Sansa’s waiting lips Mr Baratheon began to kiss her, tenderly, then with increasing pressure, and with his tongue as if he hadn’t kissed her in so very long. This is real, thought Sansa, feeling a strange wave of relief: this was where she belonged, in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, those two! It's heating up a bit ;) 
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- So the St. Crispin's Day speech in Henry V is a monologue King Henry makes shortly before the Battle of Agincourt where he emphasises the justness of his claim to the French thrown and basically gives a really rousing speech to his men. This is just a little nod from me to canon King Stannis ;) Here's the most well known bit, which I think works quite nicely in tandem with what we know about canon Stan:
> 
> "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  
> For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
> Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,  
> This day shall gentle his condition;  
> And gentlemen in England now a-bed  
> Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,  
> And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks  
> That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day."
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated! 
> 
> Cappy x


	18. Goshawks and Herons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a late update, sorry everyone - hope you didn't miss me too much! Thank you for all of the lovely reviews, hope you like this new chapter :)
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

The following morning, as Sansa rose and dressed, she thought over all that had happened, and wondered if it were a dream. She could not be certain of the reality till she had seen Mr Baratheon again, and heard him renew his words of love and promise. She told herself to be calm and measured, yet could not supress the elated feeling thundering within her breast, nor the joyous smile tugging at her lips.

            From her drawer, Sansa took out her favourite dress: an airy, cotton plaid, light grey against white; its lines criss-crossing perfectly along her slender form, drawing attention to the narrowness of her waist; its collar a dainty trimming of pale lace. Later, while arranging her hair, Sansa regarded herself in the glass: it seemed no attire had ever so well become her; because none had she ever worn in so blissful a mood, excepting perhaps the dress she had worn yesterday—the day Mr Baratheon had renewed his most welcome affections.

            Presently, Arya entered as usual without knocking, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. She had not deemed it necessary to assist her elder sister with dressing that morning, as she perceived her to be suitably recovered. Besides, it was a most tiresome business in Arya’s eyes: what did it matter if a girl’s hair was arranged just so, or if _this_ dress and not _that_ dress made any difference to the proceedings of the day? Fashions and fripperies: a succession of busy nothings, surmised the younger Stark.

            After breakfast, the sisters parted ways: the younger wished to explore the grounds more fully, as that day was to be her last at Storms End before returning to Winterfell parsonage. So, like a bird, or a shaft, or any other swift thing, Sansa hurried in the direction of the library, in hopes of finding Mr Baratheon there. She opened the half-closed door and, to her pleasure, found him busy among books and papers, with which the large leather-covered table was strewn. Typically, Mr Baratheon would ride out every morning, often about the outlying fields to check up on the labourers at work there, or sometimes for a good gallop with Fury. After the excitement of Miss Stark’s illness, it would have been quite correct for Mr Baratheon to now return to his habitual duties as master and landowner. It was expected of him, even.

            This morning, however, after seeing his brother and Mr Tyrell off during the early hours, Mr Baratheon had decided to linger indoors rather than venture out. He had busied himself with estate business: tenancy renewals, early harvest estimations from his tenant farmers, general day-to-day administration, which could have been overseen by Mr Seaworth had he not insisted otherwise. Nevertheless, Mr Baratheon was all too aware of the artifice of the situation he had placed himself in: the sole reason for his remaining indoors that morning was in hopes of seeing her—his sweetheart, his darling girl, his dearest Sansa. Mr Baratheon almost flushed with embarrassment when such terms of endearment flooded his mind at the mere thought of her; such profusions were so against his usual reticent nature.

            Upon her entrance, Mr Baratheon’s dark head immediately looked up from his work; he had instantly recognised the familiar, light step of one Miss Sansa Stark. At the sight of her, he promptly stood up from the table. His chair scraped sharply against the floor at such a sudden movement, disturbing the peaceable quiet, which had previously pervaded the library. His stature looked imposingly tall upon rising, even when set against the towering bookcases surrounding them. Mr Baratheon seemed at a loss for words, so pleased he was to see her, that instead of speaking he came round from behind the table to stand silently before her; a shy smile upon his lips, and unconstrained affection gleaming in his dark eyes. Without a word, Mr Baratheon gently gathered her up in his arms, and Sansa rather nestled into him, as if weary. At length she spoke:

            “So it is true then.”

            “What is?” replied Mr Baratheon, in his lowest tone, and with his lips brushing lightly against her temple.

            “That yesterday truly happened; that it was not some…” she sighed dreamily: “ _marvellous_ , miraculous dream; that you, Stannis Baratheon, love me.”

            It should be noted, reader, that when amused Mr Baratheon possessed the odd habit of resisting the impulse to laugh; instead his mouth would rather twitch upwards until the temptation of a more outward expression was duly thwarted. However, feeling altogether uncharacteristically at ease with himself, Mr Baratheon allowed the good humour within him to have its way: his features relaxed, and he broke out into a broad, sunny smile.

            “Oh, but it did! And I do—most ardently.”

            “Then I am most glad!” exclaimed Sansa merrily. She rested her chin upon his chest and gazed up at him, her lips curving up in happiness to mirror his own.

            At the sight of such a loving look, Mr Baratheon’s arms slid down from her back to wrap around her waist, pulling her ever more tightly against him. He sighed contentedly, languidly even; his countenance was free of its usual severity and sternness; there was no tightening of his jaw or clenching of his teeth; no lines furrowed his brow. He was perfectly at ease—perfectly happy. Sansa’s arms had risen up to entwine themselves about his neck, her head coming to rest sweetly upon his shoulder. Absentmindedly, her fingers toyed with the hair at the nape of his neck, as her eyes fluttered closed. It seemed natural: it seemed genial to be so well loved, so caressed by her.

            “I must go join Shireen; I have been so remiss in my teaching lately.”

            “Do not reprimand yourself too harshly. She has been unfathomably fortunate to have you as a governess.” Mr Baratheon paused, and softly kissed her forehead. “As have I—been unfathomably fortunate.”

            Sansa smiled and tilted her head upwards so that she might press her lips against his in gratitude at his kind words; Mr Baratheon eagerly responded to the gesture. Yet all to soon for his liking, their lips parted and Sansa began to disentangle herself from his arms.

            “Stay,” he murmured, with hands gripping her waist as she attempted to move away from him. His pleading tone caused her to place a fleeting kiss upon his downturned mouth, which he promptly tried to prolong, much to Sansa’s thrilled amusement.

            “I have to go, Shireen will be waiting,” she laughed between kisses.

            Mr Baratheon merely shook his head and continued to clutch at her waist while he kissed her; his attentive ministrations causing Sansa to sigh wantonly and lean into his touch, if only for a moment longer.

            With one last kiss, she moved decisively away from him. Mr Baratheon’s hand, now displaced from her waist, reached out helplessly towards her. Sansa’s smaller hand swiftly nestled into that firm compact grasp, and she smiled at him indulgently.

            “Shireen’s a good girl,” he said quietly, after a moment’s hesitation. The words were not quite an inquiry, he was so certain of his answer. There was a mixture of tenderness and trust in his eyes, as he awaited the reply, which came in a moment.

            “She is a darling. I cannot tell you how fond I am of her.”

            Mr Baratheon nodded in agreement, and then sighed: “Be off with you, then. Go do your duty, Miss Governess.” His words were curt, yet his eyes belied his true humour.

            Sansa smiled blushingly. Then, after giving his hand a small squeeze, she hastily left the library. She found Shireen in the nursery, seated on a couch, half shrouded by the drooping draperies of a nearby window. Miss Patchett could be heard bustling about off to one corner, setting the room to rights. Observing her, Sansa was pleased to see that the little girl seemed happy; all her appliances for occupation were about her; the white wood workbox, a shred or two of muslin, an end or two of ribbon collected and gifted to her by Sansa for conversion into doll-millinery. The doll, duly night-capped and night-gowned, lay in its cradle; Shireen was rocking it to sleep, with an air of the most perfect faith in its possession of sentient and somnolent faculties; her eyes, being at the same time, engaged with a picture-book, which lay open on her little lap.

            “Miss Stark,” Shireen said in a whisper, “this is a wonderful book. Lottie is asleep now, and I may tell you about it; only we must both speak low, lest she should waken.”

            Sansa smiled and nodded in understanding as she came to sit next to her young charge. The little girl leaned into her governess’ side affectionately before proceeding on with her musings:

            “This book was given to me by papa. It tells about distant countries, a long, long way from England, which no traveller can reach without sailing thousands of miles over the sea. There are many strange lands, Miss Stark, but here is the strangest of all,” she turned a few pages, stopping once she had found a particular coloured etching. “This is a land of ice and snow, without green fields, woods, or gardens. In this land, they found some mammoth bones: there are no mammoths now. Do you know what a mammoth is, Miss Stark?”

            Sansa shook her heard: “No, Shireen, perhaps you could tell me?”

            “Oh, yes, I can tell you, because papa told me. A mammoth is a mighty creature, like an elephant, but hairier and bigger—as high as this room, and as long as the hall downstairs. But not a fierce, flesh-eating thing, papa says. He believes, if I met one in a forest, it would not kill me, unless I came quite in its way; then it would trample me down amongst the bushes, as I might tread on a grasshopper in a hayfield without knowing it.”

            “I should be very unhappy if my little friend were to get trampled.”

            Sansa’s young charge giggled in response.

            “Come along now, Shireen. Let us leave Lottie to her beauty sleep, and begin your lessons.” And so, governess and pupil promptly left the nursery for the schoolroom. Later, after luncheon, they ventured outside with Miss Patchett to join Actaeon and Arya at play.

            Outside, the sky was so pure, the sun so radiant. It was that delicious period of the year when summer is just on the precipice of bursting forth from the growth of spring; when all the various shades of green which nature can put forth are still in their unsoiled purity of freshness. It was as if a wave of Italian days had come from the South, like a flock of glorious passenger birds, and had lighted to rest upon the cliffs of Albion. The hay was being brought in; the fields round Storms End were becoming green and shorn; the roads white and baked; the trees were moving into their dark prime: hedge and wood, full-leaved and deeply tinted, contrasted well with the sunny hue of the already cleared meadows between. With a broad smile, Sansa watched as her sister and Shireen batted a shuttlecock back and forth, while Actaeon ran circles around a flustered Miss Patchett in excitement.

            In due course, Mr Baratheon emerged from the house, followed by Mr Seaworth. Perhaps he too wishes to take in the pleasure of the delicious day, the sweet repose, the murmurous scented air, mused Sansa. From the corner of her eye, she observed the two men exchange a few words, until the land agent’s hand fell down upon Mr Baratheon’s shoulder with a hearty slap. The master of Storms End seemed momentarily startled by such an action but quickly recovered, and offered the other man his hand, which was firmly clasped. The two men then parted ways, with Davos Seaworth walking off in the direction of the stables. Then, as if sensing her eyes upon him, Mr Baratheon turned his head to meet her gaze; he swiftly, and purposely began to stride towards her.

            Once by her side, Mr Baratheon held his hands behind his back, and attempted to pay attention to Arya and Shireen’s game of badminton. Sansa looked up at him silently, and smiled before shaking her head in amusement. Her slight movement caused Mr Baratheon to glance down at her, a questioning look upon his solemn face. Sansa flushed and cast her gaze about her, distractedly.

            “Miss Stark.”

            “Yes, Mr Baratheon?”

            “May I speak with you on a matter?”

            “Of course, sir.”

            Sansa promptly followed him as he abruptly turned away from the game of badminton; his pace quick and determined. They went in and out of old-fashioned greenhouses, over trim lawns; Mr Baratheon unlocked the great walled kitchen garden, and went about giving directions to the gardeners; and all the time Sansa followed close behind him, somewhat perplexed by his behaviour. Presently, every place near the house had been inspected and regulated, and the master of Storms End was more at liberty to give his attention to his companion, as they passed through the little wooded area that separated the gardens from the adjoining fields.

            “I did not mean to ignore you: I had certain duties that had to be taken care of,” he said apologetically, as they suddenly came upon a mere, or large pond. There was a small island in the middle of the glassy water, on which grew tall trees, dark Scotch firs in the centre, silvery shimmering willows close to the water’s edge. “We could go punting over there, one of these days. I am not fond of using the boat at this time of the year, because the young birds are still in the nests among the reeds and water-plants; but we’ll go. I could show you the coots and grebes.”

            Sansa nodded eagerly, her sweet eyes filled with wonder. Mr Baratheon offered her a small smile in return, evidently pleased at her genuine interest. Shyly, she inched closer to him, her eyes at once gazing up at him and also surveying her idyllic surroundings.

            “Oh, look, there’s a swan!”

            “Yes; there are two pairs of them,” replied Mr Baratheon. His hand softly came to rest upon the small of her back, as he inclined his head slightly towards her own. He then directed her gaze out across the water with an outstretched arm. “And in those trees there is both a rookery and a heronry; the herons ought to be here by now, for they’re off to sea in August, but I’ve not seen one yet.” His eyes cast over the large pond for a moment, while the hand upon Sansa’s back slid down and round, to clasp at her waist. “Oh!” he exclaimed suddenly; “Do you see that fellow on the stone, with his long neck bent down, looking into the water?”

            “Yes! I think so,” replied Sansa, craning her neck. “I have never seen a heron before—only pictures of them.”

            “They and the rooks are always at war, which doesn’t do for such near neighbours,” explained Mr Baratheon, his lips brushing against the delicate shell of her ear as he spoke. “If both herons leave the nest they are building, the rooks come and tear it to pieces; once I saw a long straggling fellow of a heron, with a flight of rooks after him, with no friendly purpose in their minds, I’ll be bound.”

            “Oh, how awful!”

            “Such is the way of things, I am afraid.”

           Mr Baratheon’s touch left her then and he took a step away from her. Immediately, Sansa felt keenly the loss of his closeness as she watched him walk a small distance along the bank of the pond.

            It was such a late spring day as breathes into a man an ineffable yearning, a painful sweetness, a longing that makes him stand motionless, looking at the leaves or the water, in quiet contemplation. With memory set smarting like a reopened wound, a man’s past is not simply a dead history, an outworn preparation of the present: it is not a repented error shaken loose from the life: it is still a quivering part of himself, bringing shudders and bitter flavours and the tinglings of merited regret. Damn these lingering, reoccurring sorrows of childhood—when sorrow was all new and strange, when hope had not yet the wings to fly beyond the days and weeks, when the space from summer to summer seemed measureless. At length, Mr Baratheon spoke:

            “When I was a boy I found an injured goshawk hereabouts, and nursed her back to health. Proudwing, I named her.” He smiled faintly; his eyes still fixed upon the still water before him. “She would perch on my shoulder and take food from my hand, but she would not soar. Time and time again I would take her hawking, but she never flew higher than the treetops.” Mr Baratheon sighed deeply and kicked a booted foot against the turfed bank. “My parents died not long after, and we—Renly and I—were moved to London, to be brought up with Robert. So I had to set her free; there was no way of keeping her. Besides, my cousin insisted on calling her Weakwing, and my uncle told me I was making a fool of myself over her: a stupid boy, he called me, lamenting the loss of a bird that was closer to a lapdog in character than any queen of the skies.” He turned to face her then: “For the longest time I believed him to be right.”

            There is such a thing, reader, as looking through a person’s eyes into the heart, and learning more of the height, and breadth, and depth of another’s soul in one moment than it might take you an entire lifetime to discover; if he or she were not disposed to reveal it, or if you had not the sense to understand it. Sansa’s silent look of affection and understanding, when all previous eyes had turned coldly away—the consciousness that Stannis Baratheon possessed the sympathy and love of one being when all others had deserted him—was a hold, a stay, a comfort, in the deepest affliction, which no wealth could purchase, or power bestow. Mr Baratheon had passed through fire, but he had passed also through the river of years which washes out that fire; he had experienced the saddest experience of all—forgetfulness of what it is like to love and be loved.

            Tentatively, Sansa came towards him with eyes full of devotion and promise. She lifted her face to him, and he instinctively bent forwards and kissed her, gently, with lips meeting like that of an eternal pledge. And as he kissed her, and held her, Mr Baratheon’s heart strained within his chest. He had crossed over a gulf of sorrow and misfortune to her, with all that he had left behind becoming, if not wholly mended, then infinitely soothed.

            Sansa’s heart was his, with all its love and truth. She knew that he had failings, like any man, but she knew his to be borne out of a feeling of being like one cast away; for the want of someone to trust in, and to care for, and think well of him. Their two souls, in that moment, rolled to meet one another like two velvet peaches that touch softly and are at rest; mingling as easily as two brooklets that ask for nothing but to entwine themselves and ripple with ever-interlacing curves in the leafiest hiding-places.

            “It seems to me that we can never truly give up longing and wishing for things,” murmured Sansa, once their lips had tenderly parted. “There are certain things—like love and friendship—which we feel to be beautiful and good, and it is quite right to hunger after them. And it is quite right too to feel sadness at the loss of them.”

            “How very lucky I am to have found such a woman as you, dearest Sansa.” His tone was reverent, as his eyes swept over her: full of wonder and worship.

            Mr Baratheon’s hands slowly came up from her waist to tenderly cup her kiss-flushed face. Sansa’s eyes fluttered downwards and she shyly toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat as she spoke:

            “I believe you to be an exceptional man, Mr Baratheon.”

            “I must endeavour, then, to be worthy of such a high estimation—to be worthy of _you_ ,” he whispered, brushing his lips against hers once more.

            Sansa smiled widely into his kiss and laughed softly at Mr Baratheon’s quizzical look upon parting. “It’s happened again.”

            “What has?”

            “You’ve stolen me away, despite your protestations regarding my honour and reputation.”

            Mr Baratheon flushed, his hands sliding down from Sansa’s face to hold onto the curve of her waist; as if to steady himself.

            “Uh, well,” he said, clearing his throat. “You see I have made plans to rectify that matter in a way which I hope will please you.”

            “Oh?”

            “I thought I might accompany your sister back to Winterfell—so that I might speak to your father.”

            At his words, a light came ever more brilliantly into Sansa’s blue eyes, and she sprang up, and threw her arms around Mr Baratheon’s neck in her happiness. He held her tightly in return, a gush of blissfully requited love washing over him as he did so. It seemed an age before they released one another and headed back to the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cute or what? 
> 
> Special thanks to Tommyginger for brainstorming some ideas with me and basically telling me how much people are enjoying this fic - that was lovely to hear and really spurred me on with finishing this chapter :)
> 
> Nerdy Side Note:
> 
> \- Shireen's doll, Lottie, is just a little shout out to Charlotte Brontë whose obviously been a big influence on this story. 
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	19. Sunshine Through Heather

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back babyyyyy ;) Long time no see!
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

It was a brilliantly hot morning, the first of its kind to grace this northern county’s wild and open landscape. Indeed, for Arya Stark it was very pleasant to be driving quickly along in Mr Baratheon’s luxurious carriage, through the pretty green lanes of Felwood and Bronzegate, ornamented with dog-roses and honeysuckles so plentiful and blooming in the hedges, that if she were more romantically inclined, she might well have asked the coachman to stop a moment while she gathered a nosegay. That morning they had left very promptly, without a second’s delay, as the master of the house had so insisted. For the first mile or two, they kept silence. Arya looking out of her window, and Mr Baratheon leaning back in his corner, deep in thought; oh, what a delight it was to be thus seated, rumbling along the broad sunshiny road, with the fresh morning breeze in her face, surrounded by unknown country all smiling—cheerfully, gloriously smiling in the yellow lustre of those early beams.

            With every clatter of the horses’ feet, Storms End, and her sister in it, receded further and further away; the scene outside her window altering with every turn of the carriage’s wheels: men in their shirtsleeves in the outlying fields getting in the early harvest of oats; a dog, guarding their coats and water-cans, panting loudly on the other side of an elm tree. As their carriage hurried past, Arya caught a glimpse of them over the tall hedgerows, and, if only for a moment, heard the soothing measured sound of the fall of the long swathes, as they were mown. When she grew tired of leaning forward, Arya gave it up, and leant back to match Mr Baratheon’s more rigid posture. With her usual boldness, the young lady then made some attempts to get up a conversation with her travelling companion; but the monosyllables “yes,” or “no,” or “humph,” were the utmost her several remarks could elicit from him. At last, on her asking his opinion upon some immaterial point of discussion, he answered—

            “Forgive me, Miss Arya, I cannot discern the point of this idle talk and wish you would desist in it. I am no great conversationalist, so you shall not lament the loss of it, I assure you.”

            Arya fixed her grey eyes upon Mr Baratheon’s brooding countenance, as if by doing so she meant to pluck out his innermost thoughts. After half a minute’s perusal, with a slight twinkle in her eye and a curl of her lip, not unnoticed by the indignant gentleman, she voiced her findings:

            “I believe you to be quite agitated, sir! Does the prospect of meeting the kind and goodly parson of Winterfell parish fill you with such dread?”

            “It is not so much the man in question as to the conservation I must have with him,” conceded Mr Baratheon, in a rather vexed tone.

            “Lord! I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you. He daren’t refuse you; our mother would not allow it! Do not all matchmaking-mamma’s long for a respectable man of good fortune and standing to offer for their daughters?”

            “Aye, no doubt they do, though I am not, as you say, a matchmaking-mamma, so can have no certainty on the matter. I can, however, attest to the fact that my situation in life is that which a young lady of your sister’s gentility and character deserves. She will lack for nothing.”

            “Yes, that is all very well. Though if I can offer you one small piece of advice it would be this: when you speak to papa you must make sure to declare your love for Sansa from the very beginning, lest he get the wrong impression regarding the depth of your affection.”

            “Whatever do you mean?”

            “Well, there was that business of Sansa returning home so suddenly, her mood so morose and downtrodden, only for her to up and leave again. Then she fell ill, so there is some question regarding your conduct towards her, sir; whether or not, as part of your household, she has been duly cared for.”

            Mr Baratheon coloured up to the temples, gave her one furtive glance, and then cast his gaze out the window, looking grave, but seemingly offering no immediate reply to her remarks. At last he spoke, having taken the time to consider his words, lest he somehow fail to convey all that was currently occupying his mind:

            “I never wished for her to go, though neither could I deny her the choice to do so. It pains me greatly and without end that circumstances resulted in her departure, and then, upon her return, for her to fall ill; my pride had prevented me from expressing the love which I still deeply felt for her, causing her to act under the misinformation that she meant nothing to me. If you had not spoken to me, informing me of her true feelings when you did, Miss Arya…” He tailed off, then resumed with a shake of his head. “Well, I do not like to think on it. I have behaved badly in the past, but I hope now to be given the chance to make amends for my foolishness. There is no other woman on Earth as dear to me as your sister. She is without equal. Even now, I feel my separation from her as keenly as if we were oceans apart, not some three or four miles.” He sighed deeply and turned in his seat to face her. “Do you think me a very pathetic and unworthy specimen?”

            “No,” answered the puckish girl, smiling from ear to ear. “Not at all. If I did, I would never consent to having you as a brother. Indeed, I think it shall suit me very well, as I have yet to explore your estate to my full satisfaction. What are men to endless woods and rolling moorland? I am a northern girl, through and through, and shall never cease to be so.”

            Mr Baratheon’s mouth twitched upwards slightly, belying his amusement.

            “Nothing could be more certain.”

            “Except the love you bear my sister.”

            “Aye, excepting that.”

            After several more miles, and a midday stop at a roadside inn, they came to a large upright stone where the highway branched off onto the moor on the right side; a rough sand-pillar, with the letters A. H. cut on its north side, on the east, W., and on the south-west, N. C. L. To this end their carriage left behind the more frequented regions, the wooded valleys, the oat-fields and the meadowlands, and proceeded along a rough-looking road that seemed to cut through a great expanse of bushes and low-growing things. Here, the trees became scanty and stunted, giving place to larches and Scotch fir-trees, or isolated blackthorns. The fields, being rough and stony, and wholly unfit to plough, were mostly devoted to the pasturing of sheep and cattle; the soil was thin and poor: bits of grey rock here and there peeped out from the grassy hillocks; dark fruited bilberry plants and purple heather blossoms stretched on for mile after mile. As it was early summer, the call of the moorland birds—red grouses, curlews, and golden plovers—could be heard over the low rushing of the wind.

            “I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,” remarked Arya, as she peered out her carriage window. “The wind through the heather and bracken sounds just like the sea; the road we travel on the only strip of dry land.”

            On and on they drove, the road going up and down, at one point passing over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Northwards, atop a slight hill, could now be seen the aforementioned A. H., a dilapidated mansion of the Elizabethan era, built of dark grey stone—venerable and picturesque to look at, but, doubtless, cold and gloomy enough to inhabit, with its stone mullions and little latticed panes, its time-eaten air-holes, and its too lonely, too unsheltered position; only shielded from the war of the wind and weather by a group of Scotch firs, themselves half blighted with storms, and looking as stern and gloomy as the house itself. Pure, bracing ventilation they must have up there, at all times: one may guess the power of the north wind, blowing over it, by the excessive slant of those few, stunted firs; and by the range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way, as if craving alms of the sun. Surely none can think to live in a place like this, mused Mr Baratheon.

            In due course, the travellers reached the village of Winterfell; straggling cottages lined the road, an old church stood by the green, with a public-house close by it; there was a great oak tree, with a bench all round the trunk, midway between the church gates and the little inn. Gazing out of the carriage window, one could see a flock of birds wheeling and diving through the cloudless sky, round the tall, grey stoned church tower. The apple blossom by Torrhen’s Green had not yet fallen, though it looked heavy after a few days of rain. At just this time of year, the verges by the hedgerows spring so strongly that any observer might feel they could lie down and be raised up by the shoots as if by a cloud. In an instant, Mr Baratheon was transported back to his first visit to Winterfell, when he had been heart-weary and soul withered; when he had traversed the village’s cobbled streets, imagining the pathways his love must have taken; which shops she perused the windows of; which houses she stopped at to visit friends.

            During that time, he had inevitably found himself within the old, medieval walls of St Cuthbert’s, the church to which Sansa’s father was parson. Like the sea, old churches preserve the cold of winter, and Mr Baratheon keenly recalled the chill he had felt that day as he had sullenly taken a seat upon a hard wooden pew; he recalled too, his eyes lighting on a window of blue stained glass, portraying fishermen with their baskets. He had looked long and attentively; counted the fishes’ scales, the buttonholes in the men’s doublets, while, all the time, his thoughts had wandered in quest of Sansa Stark. He could imagine very well how the reflection of the stained glass might look in the current sunshine: like a many-coloured carpet continuing farther and farther along the worn flagstone floor; the brilliant daylight projected throughout the whole length of the church in one enormous ray.

            Presently, the carriage came to a halt in front of a moderately sized grey stoned building, which faced down on the church, standing at a right angle from the road; a small garden or courtyard sat directly in front of it, cornered off from the road by a rough stone fence, partly greened over with ivy and moss. Underneath the windows were several narrow flower-borders; carefully tended to, although only the hardiest plants could be made to grow there. Almost immediately, Mr Baratheon knew this place to be Winterfell parsonage, the home of the Stark family, distinct among all neighbouring houses due to its proximity to the church, but also, the thick climb of blue roses that framed its entranceway, their singular hue matching the cloudless sky above. Again, he was taken back in reverie to his previous visit to this northern village; how in foolish desperation he had trespassed in order to claim the prize of that blue tinted bloom, if only to hold in his hand something that Sansa Stark had so cherished; to situate himself alongside those feelings of love and esteem as a means to better possess them for his own. It seemed so strange to return to such a place, to recall such a time, knowing that he now held her heart just as surely as she held his.

            As soon as the carriage door was opened, his companion sprang out, travelling bag in hand, down the gravel path, ready to rap impatiently against the large wooden door. Mr Baratheon, however, lingered on by the open gate; inside the grassy courtyard were bushes of elder and lilac, their scent permeating the air with sweetness; the house itself was two stories high, heavily roofed with flags, in order to resist the winds that might strip off a lighter covering. Everything about the place told of exquisite cleanliness and order: the doorsteps were spotless; the small old-fashioned windowpanes glittered like looking-glass in the early afternoon sun. And yet the bleak and wild beauty of the moors surrounded this modest dwelling almost entirely; a pebbly bridle-path led on from its gate, westwards looking, eventually descending into a wash of purple heather, extending on for as far as the eye could see.

            Rousing himself into action, the next moment saw Mr Baratheon hurrying with rapid strides to join the younger Miss Stark; to what intent or purpose he could scarcely tell, but he must be moving somewhere, and no other goal would do—he had to see Eddard Stark, and speak to him—that was certain; but what to say, or how to act, he had no definite idea. Such stormy thoughts, so many different resolutions crowded in upon him, that his mind was little better than a chaos of conflicting anxieties.

            The door soon opened, and there appeared a small, fair-faced boy, his head an unruly wreath of auburn curls, and his eyes a bright and serious blue. These eyes did not immediately notice Mr Baratheon, but sparkled with glee on beholding his sister. The little fellow seized Arya’s hand between his, and smilingly drew her forward. Mr Baratheon stepped into the entranceway behind the pair, shut the door, and then silently followed them into the parlour. On entering the room, he found an elegant looking woman, bearing a striking resemblance to her eldest daughter, seated in an armchair by the unlit fireside, working away at some embroidery; a young invalid—evidently another of Sansa’s brothers—sat reclining on a comfortable looking sofa, his splinted and trussed up leg elevated by a mound of cushions; a grey lurcher lying quietly on the floor beside him.

            A servant had just brought in the tea-tray; the youngest boy thus promptly left his sister’s side and resumed his previous task of carefully producing the sugar-basin and tea-caddy from the cupboard in the black, oak sideboard, which shone like polished ebony in the cheerful afternoon sunshine.

            All the furniture in the room was as old-fashioned and as well preserved as it could be. The chintz curtains were Indian calico of the last century—the colours almost washed out, but the stuff itself exquisitely clean. The wooden flooring was of finely grained oak, so firmly joined, plank-to-plank, that no grain of dust could make its way into the interstices. The age and appearance of the Stark’s parlour gave an aspect of comfort and picturesqueness to the whole apartment. On the walls there hung some watercolour sketches—portraits. From his position at the opposite end of the room, Mr Baratheon thought he could make out that one of them was a likeness of his Sansa, in her beautiful girlhood.

            “Well! here you are at last,” said Mrs Stark, without looking up from her work, thus interrupting his perusal of the room. “Now shut the door, and come to the fire, while Rickon gets the tea ready; I’m sure you must be starved, Arya, dear; and you must tell me—Oh!” The lady broke off with cry of surprise upon seeing the tall and solemn figure of Mr Baratheon, somewhat self-consciously standing by the open doorway. “I beg your pardon, sir—Arya, who is this gentleman?”

            “This is Mr Baratheon, mamma; the master of Storms End,” answered her daughter, dropping her travelling bag at her feet and stepping further into the room to join her brothers.

            “Are you indeed, sir? Well, I cannot think to what we owe the honour, unless, you have some news of Sansa you wish to relay to us?” The tone of her voice then became anxious and her pallor drained. “She has not relapsed in her illness? Silly child, why ever did she endanger herself so! And with no thought for her poor mamma! Oh, Mr Baratheon—”

            “Madam, when I departed my estate this morning I left your daughter in near perfect health,” interjected the gentleman before the older woman could descend into hysteria. “I wish…” He took a breath to steady himself; for he was ill at ease with four pairs of inquisitive eyes fixed upon him. “If it is not any inconvenience, madam, I should like to speak with your husband.”

            Mrs Stark glanced at her daughter, and a silent conversation seemed to pass between them, she then returned her gaze to the restless man in front of her. She smiled at him in sudden understanding; “Certainly, sir! My youngest son, Rickon, shall direct you to his study, forthwith.”

            The boy in question perked up upon hearing his name and promptly did his mother’s bidding. Mr Baratheon followed the lad out of the room, attempting to look as cool and careless as he possibly could, though his hands shook a little, requiring him to clasp them firmly behind his back. With a cursory glance, he observed that there were pleasant, old-fashioned window seats all throughout the house; and one could see that the parsonage was built in the days when wood was plentiful, as the massive stair banisters, the wainscots, and the heavy window frames testified.

            In no time at all, however, Rickon halted in front of his father’s study, issuing a careful knock against the large, darkly wooded door. A voice from inside murmured, “Come in,” and so the boy slightly pushed the door and found it was ajar. He then turned to Mr Baratheon, offering him an encouraging smile before scampering off, back to join his mother and siblings in the parlour for hot tea with bread and jam.

            For a moment, Mr Baratheon watched the boy’s retreating form; his auburn head suddenly disappearing out of sight; it was a decidedly unkempt head of hair, yet it bore a certain glossiness that matched Sansa’s, though it was undoubtedly a shade or two darker than her copper tresses.

            “Pray, do come in.”

            Slightly shamefaced to have been caught loitering, Mr Baratheon swiftly entered Mr Stark’s study, closing the door behind him. His eyes then lighted upon the man who perhaps had it in his power to quash all his hopes of marital happiness. Eddard Stark was what you would probably call at first view rather a strange-looking man, for he was dark, wan, long-faced, with shadowy hair carelessly streaking his forehead. His eyes were large, and grave, and grey—their expression intent and meditative, rather searching than soft, rather thoughtful than genial. When he parted his lips to smile at the stranger before him, his physiognomy was agreeable—not that it was frank or cheerful, but Mr Baratheon felt the influence of a certain sedate charm, suggestive, whether truly or delusively, of a considerate, perhaps a kindly nature.

            “In what way can I be of assistance to you, Mister—?”

            “Baratheon. Stannis Baratheon,” he answered, taking the proffered seat, positioned in front of Mr Stark’s large, wooden desk.

            “I see,” replied the parson, with a sudden sternness to his Yorkshire burr. “In truth, I have been rather wanting to talk to you about my daughter’s position in your household. I am afraid the arrangement cannot continue.”

            On this soft and pleasant afternoon, with all the blue winter roses in bloom, Mr Stark had felt the absence of his eldest daughter to be a great evil. When he had last seen her, he had been startled into discovering that his little one was fast growing into a fine young woman; but she was so far away that he could not guard her as he wished. Her mother had brought her up to be a sensible, level-headed girl, so he had scoffed at himself for thinking that all young men were wolves in chase of his one ewe-lamb. Yet, it rankled him to be now faced with this particular gentleman, whose bachelorhood had been, inadvertently, concealed from him by his friend, Doctor Reed.

            “I am in agreement with you, sir. Though I would like to propose a new arrangement, one that I am assured will bring your daughter much happiness.”

            “My daughter’s happiness is my utmost concern, Mr Baratheon, and it is my belief that she should leave your house and return to Winterfell at the earliest convenience.”

            Formerly, Mr Baratheon’s heart had been as a locked casket with its treasure inside; but now the casket was empty, and the lock was broken. Left groping in the darkness of uncertain hope, he felt a slight stirring of expectation at the sight of this devoted father—a faint consciousness of dependence on his goodwill.

            “Mr Stark, I am in love with your daughter.”

            The older man blinked at him in disbelief.

            “I wish very much to make her my wife.”

            Mr Stark bristled and frowned at him: “These past months I have tacitly trusted to your honour a girl not yet nineteen. Believe me, sir; I would not have done so if I had known that you were in such a position to form an attachment to one so young and ignorant of the world of men. Sansa is a beautiful girl, no doubt, but—”

            “Forgive me the interjection. I will admit there have been countless of misunderstandings between us, but I do have Miss Stark’s assurance that she returns my feelings.”

            Mr Stark became quite still in contemplation.

            “She loves you?” he said at last.

            “Yes,” replied Mr Baratheon, still somewhat unbelieving of that fact.

            “Money is a needful and precious thing,” the older man conceded, rubbing a hand across his tired brow, “and you are a wealthy man, no doubt she would be comfortably provided for. But I would never wish for any child of mine to think money the first or only prize to strive for. I’d rather see Sansa a poor man’s wife, if she was happy, beloved, contented, than a queen on a throne, without self-respect and peace.” He sighed. “You love her you say?”

            “Yes, I do.” Then, remembering Arya’s words of counsel, Mr Baratheon tried to conjure up a sincere declaration of his regard so as to put Sansa’s father at ease. “I am certain,” he began, “that in intellect, in purity, and elevation of soul, your daughter has no equal. She is, in fact, the noblest, the loveliest, the most adorable of her sex I have ever beheld, or even imagined to exist. Of course I love her, who could help it?”

            Mr Stark smiled fully at last. “Well, Mr Baratheon, if my daughter says she loves you I see no reason to issue any further objection. You have my heartiest blessing.”

            That evening, Mr Baratheon was glad to ascend the stern-looking staircase of the local inn, The White Wolf, and lie down in its gloomy old-fashioned bedchamber. Weary as he was, his excited feelings and restless cogitations kept Mr Baratheon awake till dawn began to struggle with the darkness; but sleep was sweet and refreshing when it came, and then waking was delightful beyond expression. He attended to his toilette rather hastily, as he was keen to be on the road once more. However, Mr Baratheon abruptly paused upon the discovery of a small envelope, tucked away in his travelling case. With intense and eager interest, he tore it open and promptly devoured the letter’s contents, instantly recognising the delicate hand who wrote it:

 

_Dearest Love,_

_Though I shall see you in so short a time I cannot forbear sending you a few lines. Tonight I shall love you on an evening shifting from spring to summer. I shall love you with the window open. I shall love you with the stars looking in on me. You are mine, and things are mine, and my love alters the things around me, but the things around me shall never alter my love. Am I making any sense? I hope I am. I hope too that you are in no doubt as to my feelings for you. My heart, my soul…_

_Yours_

_Yours_

_Yours_

_Your Sansa_

 

            Once he had finished reading, Mr Baratheon slipped the letter into the inner pocket of his frockcoat, then proceeded to open the bedroom window and put out his head to catch the cooling breeze, and imbibe deep draughts of the pure morning air. As he gazed abstractedly on the lovely face of nature, two distinct emotions took precedence within his heart: joy unspeakable and an impatience to return home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed Stan's journey to Winterfell! What an interesting place...
> 
> Nerdy Side Notes:
> 
> \- So the church at Winterfell is named for Cuthbert (c. 634 – 20 March 687), a monk, bishop and hermit, who, after his death, became one of the most important medieval saints of Northern England, with a cult centred on his tomb at Durham Cathedral. He is regarded as the patron saint of Northern England, so since this story is set in that region I thought he was an appropriate choice. 
> 
> Another fun fact about Cuthbert is his association with the Farne Islands, which are a group of islands off the coast of Northumberland, England. The islands were first recorded in 651, when they became the home to Saint Aidan, followed by Saint Cuthbert (who actually died there). While he was there, isolating himself as religious hermits are wont to do, Cuthbert introduced special laws protecting the eider ducks, and other seabirds nesting on the islands. These laws are thought to be the earliest bird protection laws anywhere in the world! I have a headcanon for Victorian Stannis that he's a bit of an amateur bird enthusiast (as evidenced by the previous chapter), so I feel like him and Cuthbert might get on well.
> 
> (I am also a medieval nerd so all this Anglo-Saxon stuff deeply pleases me)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


	20. Restless With Waiting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Started feeling the Victorian vibe again so thought I'd update this fic :) Thanks for all the lovely comments from last chapter, hope you enjoy this new one!
> 
> (Disclaimer: Don't own anything, special indebtedness to asoiaf, the Brontës, Hardy, Gaskell, etc.)

On summer mornings at Winterfell parsonage Sansa used to rise early, to enjoy them alone before the rest of the household had awoken; on summer evenings, she used to linger solitary, to keep tryst with the rising moon, or taste one kiss of the evening breeze, or fancy rather than feel the freshness of dew descending. During those instances she would often ponder over what her life would become; by what means its equilibrium might be altered and by whose hand her entry into womanhood might be steered. For purpose in life seemed to be something one had to passively wait for, if one was a woman. By comparison, her elder brother was not so hindered by his sex; he might finish Cambridge with a longing for London, or the Continent, or anywhere he so wished, and that path could be his entirely, its only obstacle being a possible lack of income.

            Such unequal freedoms had always quietly vexed Sansa. Women were expected to be very calm generally, but women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would suffer; except for a woman the cage of society’s expectation is so much smaller, its bars so much closer together, its lock less easily picked and opened. So it is narrow-mindedness in women’s more privileged fellow-creatures to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering handkerchiefs. It is thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more, or see more, or learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.

            Indeed, every true joy that life gives must be earned ere it is secured; and how hardly earned, those only know who have wrestled for great prizes. The heart’s blood must gem with red beads like the brow of the combatant, before the wreath of victory is placed upon it. At eighteen the school of experience is to be entered, and her humbling, crushing, grinding, but yet purifying and invigorating lessons are yet to be learned. But now, with her eighteenth year almost at its close, Sansa Stark could presume to say that she knew the world a little better; for she knew it to be wide and varied, that a diverse field of hopes and fears, of sensations and excitements, awaited those who had the courage to go forth into its expanse, to seek real knowledge of life amidst its perils.

            It was early morning when her sister and Mr Baratheon departed for Winterfell; Sansa had stood on the large stone steps of the great house; she had kissed her sister goodbye and Mr Baratheon had pressed her hand tenderly, a quiet smile tugging at his lips. But then that smile was gone; he abruptly turned towards the carriage, his back straightening, and his visage becoming sterner than a judge, graver than a sage. In that brief fraction of time what a change had been wrought! Sansa tried to catch her sister’s eye to see if she too had caught it, but the younger girl only smirked at her puckishly, her grey gaze betraying nothing but mirth as she moved to follow the master of the house into the awaiting carriage.

            Mrs Cressen then surprised Sansa by asking in a rather grave tone if she would now come to breakfast. During the meal the old lady was quiet and cool: but Sansa could not undeceive her then. Her thoughts were entirely with Mr Baratheon: rumbling along the country lanes, bumping along the stony paths, babbling in the brooks and creaks of that wild and northern landscape of which he now travelled. She ate what she could, and then rose to leave, ready to hasten herself upstairs to see to Shireen’s morning lessons. But her movements were interrupted:

            “Miss Stark, will you accompany me to the parlour.”

            Sansa dutifully followed. In the housekeeper’s room, on a little table lay Mrs Cressen’s Bible—her morning portion of Scripture with her spectacles laid upon it. Turning to face her, Mrs Cressen’s wrinkled eyes, fixed on the blank wall opposite, expressed the wirings of a quiet mind, stirred by unwonted tidings. Then, as if suddenly remembering the young woman before her, Mrs Cressen roused herself: she made a sort of effort to smile but then the smile expired, and she moved to take up her spectacles, shut her Bible, and push her chair back from the little table.

            “I feel so astonished,” she began, taking a seat and gesturing for Sansa to do the same, “I hardly know what to say to you, Miss Stark. Now can you tell me whether it is true that Mr Baratheon has asked you to marry him? Don’t laugh at me. But I really thought he came in here, yesterday evening, and said that in a month you would be his wife.”

            “He has said the same thing to me,” Sansa replied, smoothing her skirts as she took her place at the small table opposite the old matron.

            “He has! Do you believe him? Have you accepted him? Well, I suppose you must have if he is now travelling to Winterfell along with your sister.”

            “Yes, ma’am.” She looked at Sansa bewildered.

            “I could never have thought it. He is a proud man: all the Baratheons were proud: and his father, at least, liked money. He, too, has always been called careful. He means to marry you?”

            “He tells me so.”

            “It passes me!” she continued: “but no doubt it is true since you say so and since he is now gone to Winterfell. How it will answer, I cannot tell: I really don’t know. Equality of position and fortune is often advisable in such cases; and there is such a difference in your ages. He might almost be your father.”

            “No, indeed, Mrs Cressen!” exclaimed Sansa, nettled: “you must think me far younger than my eighteen years if you suppose such a thing! No one who saw us together would assume that for an instant. Mr Baratheon is closer to thirty than he is forty, and looks as young, and is as young as some men at five-and-twenty.”

            Despite the passion that inflected her words, Mrs Cressen remained obstinate in her questioning.

            “Is it really for love he is going to marry you?” she asked.

            Sansa was so severely hurt by her coldness and scepticism that tears swiftly rose to her eyes.  

            “I am sorry to grieve you,” pursued the widow; “but you are so young, and so little acquainted with men, I wished to put you on your guard. It is an old saying that ‘all that glitters is not gold’; and in this case I do fear there will be something found to be different to what either you or I expect.”

            “Why?—am I a monster? Is it so impossible that Mr Baratheon should have a sincere affection for me?”

            “No: you are very well; and much too pretty to be always kept a governess; and Mr Baratheon, I daresay, is fond of you. I have always noticed that you were a sort of pet of his. There are times when, for your sake, I have been a little uneasy at his marked preference, and have wished to put you on your guard: but I did not like to suggest even the possibility of wrong. I knew such an idea would shock, perhaps even offend you; and you were so thoroughly modest and sensible, I hoped you might be trusted to protect yourself.”

            Sansa stared down at the folded hands upon her lap, unable to offer Mrs Cressen any answer that would not bare the heavy weight of wounded pride and thwarted expectations. She did not wish to be thus shaken from her naïve resolution that her engagement to Mr Baratheon would be devoid of all complication and judgement. Her thoughts now turned back to the aforementioned gentleman, and she worried that perhaps his journey to Winterfell parsonage would all be for naught: perhaps her father would refuse him? Perhaps Eddard Stark would doubt the sincerity of their attachment just as Mrs Cressen did? Oh! why had she foregone sending along a letter explaining it all outright—that she loved Stannis Baratheon, wholeheartedly, but it was not a foolish love; its foundations were as strong and sturdy as rock; and no amount of force, however well-meaningly applied, could shake it.

            But alas! all she had sent with him was her heart and a little love note tucked into his travelling case. Sansa flushed at the sudden remembrance of it and miserable longings strained her heart’s chords as she imagined the failure of all her hopes coming to pass. Surely her father would consent to the marriage?

            “I hope all will be right in the end,” Mrs Cressen said; “but believe me, you cannot be too careful. Try and keep Mr Baratheon at a distance: distrust yourself as well as him. Gentlemen in his station are not accustomed to marry their governesses.”

            The chill of Mrs Cressen’s warnings, and the damp of her doubts were upon her: something of unsubstantiality and uncertainty beset Sansa’s hopes. Her mind was in disquiet for the remainder of the day, pondering over the housekeeper’s words and the possible disappointment that awaited Mr Baratheon in Winterfell; for she feared that during her time back at her childhood home she had thwarted any good opinion her father might have had of him: she had been such a desolate creature then and surely her father believed the master of Storms End to be the sole cause of it. Aggrieved with herself, Sansa determined to put aside her woes in favour of attending to her young charge; together they spent the greater part of the day in the schoolroom before finally relenting to the warm and sunny rays issuing through the glass casements.

            Come evening, Sansa and Shireen walked idly through the gardens, admiring the sun-bright nasturtiums clustered beautiful about the roots of the doddered orchard giants. Joining one garden to another was a leafy berceau, above which spread the shade of a pink-petaled acacia; as the path turned round the bend, there was a small, sequestered bower, nestled in the vines which ran all along the high and grey-stoned garden wall, and gathered their tendrils in a knot of beauty, and hung their clusters in loving profusion about the favoured spot where jasmine and ivy met and married them. It seemed to Sansa that Storms End was full of endless beauties still yet undiscovered.

            The moon was in the sky, not a full moon, but a young crescent. Sansa saw her through a space in the boughs overhead. The evening was mild, and though she felt somewhat weary, Sansa was unwilling to go back to the house for supper just yet; instead she took Shireen by the hand and sat with her in the little canopied bower, where her young charge swiftly nestled into her side with a quiet hum. She felt this evening mournfully lovely. She wished she could be happy; she wished she could know inward peace; she wondered Providence had no pity on her, and would not help or console her. Where now was Mr Baratheon? she thought to herself; had he been welcomed into the bosom of her childhood home or had he been unduly cast out and forced to face his rejection?

            “Miss Stark?” spoke the quiet, trusting voice of Sansa’s young charge. “Will papa be home soon, do you think?”

            “As soon as tomorrow, God willing,” she replied, mustering a smile.

            Governess and pupil lingered in the gardens a little while longer before eventually returning to the house for supper, where Sansa kept up well, partaking in some light, unburdensome conversation with Mrs Cressen as they ate. At last, she was then able to shut herself away in her own room; but, as she lay down on the bed and rested her head and arms on the pillow, a terrible oppression overcame her. Mrs Cressen’s warnings loomed heavily once more. All at once her position rose on her like a ghost. Anomalous, desolate, almost blank of hope it stood if her marriage to Mr Baratheon did not come to pass, as she so desperately hoped it would. What prospects would she have in life without him? Whither should she go? What should she do?

            She wet the pillow, her arms, and her loosened hair, with rushing tears. But she was soon startled out of her weeping by the discovery of a small letter, pale as a snowdrift, that had been carefully stowed beneath her pillow; she recognised instantly the strong, masculine hand of the black script that adorned it, and thus promptly tore the envelope open:

 

_Sansa,_

_My tenderness, my happiness, what words can I write for you? I want to say a thousand kind, and, believe me, heartfelt things, but am not master of words fit for the purpose; and still, as I ponder and think on you now, I find myself wanting a brighter word than bright, a fairer word than fair. I cannot forget what has passed between us. But there is necessity in my leaving you, and I will endeavour to remind myself of that necessity whenever the pain of our separation, however brief, weighs too heavily upon me._

_Determinedly yours,_

_S._ _B._

 

The firm reminder of Mr Baratheon’s devotion and fidelity immediately elevated Sansa’s spirits; the day’s events were blotted from her memory, the present was now tranquil, and the future became gilded by bright rays of hope and the anticipation of joy. Drying her tears, she clutched the letter to her breast and smiled, and even laughed at her previous folly; casting her mind back, she recalled Miss Tarth’s humorous comparison of Mr Baratheon to a bulldog, and her proclamation that should Stannis Baratheon get hold of a notion, he would stick to it in a manner akin to that aforesaid canine. Yes, her dear love would see to it that all was well, this she was certain.

            The following morning, Sansa’s spirits remained high and she spent most of the day eagerly anticipating Mr Baratheon’s return to Storms End. Yet, as the hours passed and still he did not come, she began to grow restless and come early evening she felt the need to seek distraction from her unsettled thoughts within the estate’s grounds. Here and there she strayed through the orchard with Shireen, gathering up the apples with which the grass round the tree roots were thickly strewn: they employed themselves in dividing up the ripe from the unripe; once that task was completed, they then carried them into the house and put them away in the store-room. After Shireen had been taken away by Miss Patchett for her supper, Sansa repaired to the drawing room to ascertain whether the fire was lit; for, though now summer, the cool airiness of late spring still lingered; yes, the fire had been kindled some time, and burnt well. She then moved Mr Baratheon’s armchair closer to the chimney-corner: she wheeled the table near it: she let down the curtain, and had the candles brought in ready for lighting. More restless than ever, when she had completed these arrangements Sansa could not sit still, nor even remain in the house: a little time-piece in the room and the old clock in the hall simultaneously struck nine.

            “How late it grows!” she remarked to no one but herself. She decided then to run down to the gates: there would be moonlight at intervals, which would allow her to see a good way on the road. She perceived that perhaps Mr Baratheon may be home presently, and to meet him would save some minutes of suspense.

            The wind roared high in the great trees which embowered the gates; but the road as far as she could see, to the right hand and the left, was all still and solitary: save for the shadows of clouds crossing it at intervals, as the moon looked out, it was but a long pale line, unvaried by one moving speck. Sansa lingered; the moon shut herself wholly within her chamber, and drew close her curtain of dense cloud: the evening grew darker; rain came driving fast on the gale.

            “I wish he would come! I wish he would come!” she exclaimed, seized with hypochondriac foreboding. She had expected his arrival before tea; now it was swiftly becoming dark: what could keep him? Had an accident occurred?

            “Well, I cannot return to the house,” she thought; “I cannot sit by the fireside, while he is abroad in inclement weather: better tire my limbs than strain my heart; I will go forward and meet him.”

            Sansa set out; she walked fast, but not far: ere she had measured a quarter of a mile, she heard the tramp of hooves; a horseman came on, full gallop; a dog ran by his side. It was he: here he was, followed by Actaeon, who had obviously gone in search of his master just as she had. Mr Baratheon saw her, illuminated by a moon no longer shrouded by rainclouds; he took his hat off, and waved it round his head. She now ran to meet him.

            “Sansa!” he exclaimed, as he stretched out his hand and bent from the saddle: “What are you doing out in such weather? Come now, step on my boot-toe; give me both hands: mount!”

            She obeyed; joy made her agile: Sansa sprang up before him. Mr Baratheon manoeuvred her so that she sat astride the saddle, with her back pressed to his chest; her head settling against his cloaked shoulder as he drew one arm about her waist, firmly securing her body to his. Sansa all but nestled into his tight, half embrace, upturning her face to his so that he might be persuaded to gift her with a tender kiss or two; he did so eagerly before parting with a slight frown worrying his dark brow.

            “Is there anything the matter, Sansa, that you come to meet me at such an hour: is there anything wrong?”

            “No; but I thought you would never come.”

            “Aye, we had some trouble a mile or so from Hornwood: one of the carriage wheels splintered and broke upon a particularly rugged and craterous stretch of road. I blame myself: I had insisted on taking the fastest route home, uncaring of all other factors that might hinder my swift return to you; we sought help from the nearest inn and I borrowed a horse to complete the rest of the journey. I left the business of repairs with Meadows, my coachman.”

            “Oh, how dreadful! But I am so glad you are home at last; I could not bear to wait in the house for you, especially with this rain and wind.”

            “Rain and wind, indeed! Yes, you are dripping like a mermaid; pull my cloak around you: I would fear you feverish but your cheek and hand are icy cold. Regardless, you should not have endangered yourself so!” He chided her sternly, his hot breath warming her temple as he spoke lowly in her ear. “I ask you again, is there anything the matter?”

            “Nothing, now: I am neither afraid nor unhappy.”

            “But you have been both?”

            “Rather: but I’ll tell you all about it by-and-by; and I daresay you will only laugh at me for my pains.”

            “If something has caused you upset, no matter how trivial, I would hope that I could be a source of comfort and understanding, rather than mockery.”

            Sansa squeezed the arm holding her in place, and tilted her face upwards to place a loving kiss upon Mr Baratheon’s cheek.

            “I seem to have gathered up a stray lamb in my arms: you wandered out of the fold to seek your shepherd, did you, my love?” His voice was an amused rumble that warmed Sansa’s heart immeasurably.

            “I wanted you dreadfully, yes, but don’t boast,” she answered, reddening slightly as he brushed small kisses against her cheek and temple: anywhere that was available to him in their current positions. “Here we are at Storms End: now let me down, please.” Sansa eyed the large Cleveland Bay anxiously, shifting slightly upon its saddle, unused to riding let alone forgoing a side-saddle; she was still pressed so firmly against Mr Baratheon’s chest; his strong thighs resting either side of her; his cloak still warmly encasing her from the wind and rain.

            “As you wish, my dearest.” Mr Baratheon dismounted with ease, then lifted Sansa from the saddle and landed her on the pavement; his hands wrapped securely around her tapered waist as her own tightly gripped his shoulders.

            As Devan took his horse, Mr Baratheon took Sansa by the hand and led her into the hall, telling her to make haste and put something dry on, and then return to him in the drawing room. In no more than five minutes she rejoined him and found him at supper.

            “Take a seat and bear me company, Sansa.”

            She took a place near him and joined in his meal.

            “I spoke with your father,” began Mr Baratheon, causing Sansa’s fingers to still around her cutlery in anticipation. “He has given us his blessing.” Her affianced beamed proudly and stretched his hand out across the table to take hold of Sansa’s in jubilation.

            “Oh!” she gasped. “Goodness, that is a relief!” She laughed and clutched Mr Baratheon’s hand, threading their fingers.

            “Admittedly, I wished to dash off back to Storms End as soon as possible, but your family kept me locked indoors for a good few hours; an ill concealed attempt to make sense of my person and your attachment to me, I daresay.”

            Sansa laughed once more and smiled sweetly back at him. “I hardly know what thoughts I have in my head; to be so happy, I could never have fathomed it. Everything in life seems unreal.”

            “I am real enough, surely?”

            “You, sir, are the most phantom-like of all: you are a mere dream.”

            He held out his other hand and caressed her face. “Is this a dream?” he said, softly brushing a stray curl behind her ear.

            “Yes: though you touch me, it is a dream,” Sansa murmured in reply.

            They held each other’s smiles for a moment longer before she asked him whether he had finished with his supper; she then rang the bell, and ordered the tray away. When they were alone again, Sansa moved to stir the fire, and then took a low seat at Mr Baratheon’s knee by the hearth.

            “It grows late,” she said, resting her cheek against his leg while his caressing fingers sought the copper crown of her head.

            “Aye, but it would please me to sit with you a while longer.”

            Sansa hummed her easy consent; she felt pleasantly warmed by the fire, but what warmed her most of all was being so close to Mr Baratheon; his love blanketing her and protecting her from all her previous apprehensions and ill thoughts, like the softest coverlet. In due course they would retire to their separate bedchambers, but for now, Sansa allowed herself this moment of indulgence, if only because she knew that she would shortly be leaving Storms End once more; though she comforted herself with the assurance that upon her return it would not be as Miss Stark, but as Mrs Stannis Baratheon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little bit of angst but all is ultimately well :)
> 
> Reviews, as always, are very much appreciated!
> 
> Cappy x


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